


taking the long way home

by thankyouforexisting



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (NOT Viktor and Yuuri), Alternate Universe, Angst, Asexual Character, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Vicchan Lives, body image issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-10-07 03:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10351026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouforexisting/pseuds/thankyouforexisting
Summary: In which Vicchan never died, Yuuri won bronze at the Grand Prix Final, didn't get drunk at the banquet, and never made Victor fall in love with him./“I was saying,” she sounds amused now, even teasing. “How did meeting Victor go?”Yuuri’s face turns bright red almost on command at hearing the name, a reaction constructed upon years and years of his parents’ gentle insinuations and his sister’s jokes about the perfectly reasonable amount of posters in his bedroom, dammit. Oh god, he was so sure she wasn’t going to ask.“It was… okay,” he mumbles, praying that will be the end of it.“Just okay?” she’s smiling, he can hear it, gentle nudging. “Word of advice, sweetheart, you should probably look more at the camera than at the gold medallist.”“I’m hanging up, mom."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been sitting in my folder for like, weeks. I'm really nervous about it but I think I'm going to enjoy it a lot. Be gentle?  
> Special thanks to @adjit, @luullaby and @victor-katsukii on tumblr for helping me make this into something not too terrible. And thanks to @tanaw for being so sweet about it!

There’s not a strong enough word in Japanese (or even English, in his limited knowledge of the language) to describe the full sense of accomplishment that fills Yuuri’s entire body the moment he realizes that he is standing on the podium next to _ Victor Nikiforov _ with a bronze medal shining on his chest.

 

It’s a dream come true, more than ten years after he saw Victor skate on his blurry old television - eyes glued to the screen , his mouth opened wide in amazement, a flickering realization,  _ I want that _ . The lights from camera flashes blind him completely, just as the noise of thunderous applause cancels out all chances of rational thought.

 

_ This is actually happening _ , Yuuri tells himself, swallowing hard. He still can’t properly believe it. There’s a lingering uncertainty that this isn’t real, that it’s another teenage daydream. Mostly, though, he’s struggling not to fall on his ass in front of the clapping crowd.  _ That _ would be humiliating. God, he can just imagine it; first time standing within ten feet of his idol, and he embarrasses himself so thoroughly -

 

“Step a little closer, will ya?” one of the official photographers of the event - a tall woman with fiery red hair - points at them and winks. “We want to get a picture of friendly rivalry and sportsmanship, don’t we?”

 

“Of course,”  _ Victor Nikiforov _ says from beside him, tall and flawless. His costume, princelike and breathtaking, glitters brightly, catching Yuuri’s eyes without trying, although he does that simply by  _ being there _ , if he’s honest with himself. Victor moves closer to Christophe Giacometti, putting his arm around him and talking in a lighthearted tone, saying something that sparks a laugh out of him. He turns towards Yuuri then, blue eyes warm, “Is it alright if you join us, Yuuri?”

 

“Y-yes,” Yuuri says breathlessly, biting his lip to keep from accidentally letting out something like a whimper the moment Victor - real,  _ actual _ Victor Nikiforov right there with him - touches him, even through the thin layer of the soft cloth covering his arms.

 

Later that night, Yuuri gets tagged in the photo the woman took, posted on Twitter - it’s a good one, he must admit, complete with masterful lighting adding to the photographer’s obvious natural talent - and stares at it, still not certain this isn’t a dream. It feels unreal, impossible, unprecedented. Yuuri went out there, riddled with nerves and hearing his heartbeat over his music, and skated his way onto the podium.

 

“I’m a Grand Prix medallist,” he murmurs, feeling his lips stretch into a smile. “ _ I won bronze at the Grand Prix Final _ .”

 

Yuuri can’t  _ wait _ to tell Phichit, to call Yuuko and hear her shouting excitedly, to pretend not to enjoy how Minako fusses over him. He’s bringing a medal back to Hasetsu, he’s  _ finally _ managed a proper international win. Well, Yuuri’s still no one really  _ important _ in figure skating, but at least he’s done something right. Maybe he’ll feel less guilty about leaving his family for years in order to get a proper coach.

 

But there’s something else, rising up in his chest.

 

Yuuri buries his head in his hands in his hotel room, free to squeal and celebrate as childishly as he wants. He whispers, “Victor knew my name.”

 

It’s something stupid to focus on, he’s perfectly aware of that. His name flashed on screen every time he skated, and the announcer had mentioned the bronze medallist right before the podium, of course. Besides, Victor’s famous for his brilliant PR work and public image; it’s natural that he’d take the time to learn a few faces in order to give a good impression.

 

Yet.

 

“Victor knew my  _ name _ ,” Yuuri shoves his face into his pillow, shaking all over with barely-contained excitement. “He knew my  _ name _ .”

 

…

 

“Hey, mom,” Yuuri murmurs, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening in. The banquet is in about ten minutes, and he  _ should _ be getting ready so as to not completely humiliate himself (the ones in Japan are usually more relaxed, and he’s prone to skip them when it’s not absolutely necessary), but this is his mom’s tenth time calling.

 

Never underestimate his mother. She once tore through the Tokyo FS security personnel like they were in a war zone because Yuuri didn’t have his lucky hairband. 

 

“Yuuri!” she screeches from the other end of the telephone, so loud that he winces and moves it away from his ears slightly. “Yuuri, my boy! We’re all so proud of you!”

 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Yuuri runs his fingers through his hair self-consciously, feeling his cheeks heat up at the praise. “I placed third, mom, I almost didn’t make it onto the podium.”

 

“ _ Nonsense _ !” she dismisses, cheerful as ever. “We had a public viewing, you know -”

 

“ _ Mom! _ I told you not to do that, that’s so  _ embarrassing _ -”

 

“- I knew you wouldn’t like it, so I kept quiet about it -”

 

“- What if I had  _ lost _ ? That would have been  _ awful _ .” Yuuri whines, sighing. His mom can be a bit… too supportive, at times. She doesn’t mean to, he knows that.

 

“It was a beautiful performance, Yuuri,” she says, her voice quiet, a stark contrast from her exuberance. Yuuri startles, his heart skipping a beat. “I miss you so much, love,” his mom murmurs, making swallow guiltily. Her tone brightens up suddenly, obviously trying to seem upbeat. “But I’m happy you’re doing what you love, and you’re so good at it, so take your time!”

 

His breath comes out shaky, and he bites his lower lip to keep himself from saying something stupid like  _ I want to go home _ , “I miss you too, mom. Everyone back home, and the onsen.”

 

“Don’t forget to come visit, baby?” she urges, firm. “Between Worlds and Four Continents, you’re going to have such a packed schedule that you’ll miss your uncle’s birthday! You know he gets particular about these things. And I know you’re busy, but really - ”

 

“Mom,” he smiles, just a little, leaning his back against the wall of the bathroom stall and making a face when he notices something distinctly  _ wet _ against his back. Hopefully his suit isn’t getting ruined. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. There’s no guarantee I’ll be in all of those.”

 

She tuts. He can almost see her raising an eyebrow knowingly. “Of course, dear.”

 

“I mean it!” Yuuri insists. He doesn’t want her to get her hopes up now that he’s won bronze. It was just a matter of luck, anyway. If he doesn’t qualify for Worlds this year, she’ll be disappointed. Mom won’t say it, of course, she never has; she’s too kind for that. But Yuuri will know, he’ll  _ know _ , and he’ll go back with a big  _ failure _ on his forehead, marking his medal for simply miracle in his otherwise less-than-mediocre career, and then he’ll -

 

“ - was it?” His mom’s talking; has been for a while now. 

 

Yuuri blinks, and stutters out, “Uh, c-could you repeat that? Sorry, it’s a bit noisy here.” He coughs, trying to mask the noise of absolute silence.

 

It’s quite sad that he’s alone in the public toilet. It’s not the first time. Celestino calls it ‘his private time’.

 

“I was  _ saying _ ,” she sounds amused now, even teasing. “How did meeting  _ Victor _ go?”

 

Yuuri’s face turns bright red almost on command at hearing the name, a reaction constructed upon years and years of his parents’ gentle insinuations and his sister’s jokes about the  _ perfectly reasonable  _ amount of posters in his bedroom, dammit. Oh god, he was  _ so sure _ she wasn’t going to ask.

 

“It was… okay,” he mumbles, praying that will be the end of it.

 

“ _ Just _ okay?” she’s smiling, he can hear it, gentle even in her teasing. “Word of advice, sweetheart, you should probably look more at the camera than at the gold medallist.”

 

“I’m hanging up, mom,” he cuts her off hurriedly as she squeezes out a quick goodbye, only too aware of the fact that it’s better for his sanity if he does so sooner rather than later. He can only imagine all the comments Mari will make about them  _ posing together _ .  

 

Yuuri can’t think about that now, though. He’s got a  _ banquet _ to attend. A banquet that will include Victor Nikiforov. Wearing a suit. Freshly showered. Who will probably talk to him - for courtesy’s sake, Yuuri,  _ don’t get excited _ . 

 

“I can do this,” Yuuri tells himself, breathing in and out slowly. “This is something that I can do.”

 

“Would you mind  _ fucking leaving _ so I can shit in peace?” a man shouts in angry, heavily accented English from the stall to his right, making him jump. “Jesus Christ, this is a fucking  _ toilet _ .”

 

…

 

The banquet is… really, really boring.

 

As in really,  _ really _ dull.

 

Celestino has chosen to walk him around the room, glowing with pleasure at having one of his skaters win a medal, steering him away from snobby rich people (“They have no donations, but they have all the judgement,” he declares, huffing) and guiding him in the direction of figures of interest (not-snobby rich people, apparently) and aspiring younger skaters. Thankfully, he’s also providing support when he awkwardly falters in the middle of a conversation. It’s not because of his English, for once - that has gotten much better since Detroit, especially given the fact that he has to speak in English with Phichit every day. Fortunately, he no longer trips over his own words and sounds like an idiot when attempting to engage in basic communication. 

 

No, this time it’s the fact that everyone in this room is  _ big _ and  _ important _ , and he-  well, he’s a 23 year old skater who just made an acceptable international debut, with passable skills and a regular number of quads. Yuuri is no one, here, in a way that he’s never been in Japan before, where he feels, at least, more familiar and welcomed, even he’s the oldest in competition.

 

This place makes him want to run away to his room and hug his medal until he falls asleep, simply to reassure himself that he  _ does _ have it, that it  _ isn’t _ a sick trick these people are playing on him. Yuuri likes parties, most of the time, when he’s around friends and there’s enough alcohol to knock out a few adult elephants (it’s college coupled with his dad’s genes, okay), but this is hostile ground and faces he’s only seen on television before, adorned with glitter, make-up, and  _ success _ .

 

He’s turning around before the hour is up, ready to tell Celestino that he’s had enough partying for today, fidgety and tired. Only when he does, his coach isn’t there. 

 

A  _ kid _ is there. A blond kid so short that it takes him a few minutes to blink and look down in order to face him properly. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit that’s clearly custom-fitted, with the way it hugs his skinny frame without trouble. Even so, it still seems too adult and  _ big _ for him, who can only be around sixteen, with his final stages of baby-face showing through. Like a baby wearing a business suit.

 

“Yuuri Katsuki,” he says, a Russian accent slipping through. It’s only then that Yuuri realizes just  _ who _ is standing in front of him, facing him down with complete confidence. 

 

“Oh, you’re Yuri Plisetsky,” he smiles, nervous, holding out his hand immediately, although a bit warily. Meeting younger skaters usually goes down well, but Plisetsky has a bit of a reputation for being…  _ difficult _ , off the ice. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

 

Yuri Plisetsky stares at him for a moment at that, letting out a choked noise. His cheeks turn red, and he bites his lower lip as if  _ dying _ to say something. Oh my god, did Yuuri just say something  _ really _ offensive in Russian? The kid mutters,  “Yeah, whatever,” and leaves without offering any other knowledge, too fast to be called anything but running away.

 

“Teenagers,” Celestino shakes his head, a universal sign of adult disapproval but acknowledgement of the way the universe works. “The boy thinks you are yes,  _ very cool _ .”

 

“Well,” Yuuri scratches the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed. He knows that Yuri’s the undisputed champion of the Junior Grand Prix, after flawlessly executing a program well above advanced skills, and that the rumour mill is speculating about the fact that he might join the senior division next year. It’s kind of ridiculous to think that such a rising star would see anything ‘cool’ in him, who has barely made his successful international debut eight years after him. “He seemed… passionate.”

 

“I have a friend in make-up,” his coach tells him, lacing their arms together and nodding thoughtfully. “She says that he’s a very angry child. Always shouting. Tries to take the make-up off. Such disrespect.”

 

Yuuri smiles at that, even if it’s just a little. He remembers perfectly well how  _ his _ competitions went on when he was a teenager, and he did  _ much  _ more than simply complain about make-up. There was one time, just before the rink’s closing ceremony in the summer he turned twelve, in which he actually tried to flee the place (his anxiety was even worse back the), going as far as sneaking out the back until Minako caught him, always a step ahead.

 

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to cause much trouble,” he tries. Celestino huffs, discontented with his answer, and drags him off to talk with some ‘very important investor, yes’.

 

After thirty minutes more of painfully awkward introductions to people he’s never even heard of - let alone ‘appreciates so much, sir, ma’am’, as Celestino keeps insisting with fervor - Christophe Giacometti (otherwise known as the ISU’s own ‘Sexiest Man Alive’) very deliberately grabs his arm, giving him the sweetest, most innocent smile he’s ever seen, and asks his coach, fluttering his eyelashes, “Would it be alright if I borrowed him for a few minutes, Celestino?” He winks, playing with his flute of champagne as he takes a small, teasing sip. “You shouldn’t hog the life of the party, you know. It isn’t fair.”

 

Celestino, as all humans tend to do once confronted with Christophe Giacometti, gives in.

 

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Christophe says the name slowly, almost as if he’s savouring each letter, no trace of an accent. His ‘u’s are completely western, but he doesn’t botch the family name, which means he’s been listening when it's said. The silver medallist turns until they’re facing each other, leaning on one of the empty tall tables in front of the buffet table (Yuuri still doesn’t know why buffet tables at these events have such a high calorie quantity, while he’s struggling to keep down his urge to devour  _ everything in sight _ ). “Now, now,” he sips his flute again, twirling the champagne in a practiced, elegant move. “Why hadn’t you reached the final yet? My buddies at Skate Canada were very impressed.”

 

Yuuri swallows hard, wishing he had a drink of his own - despite knowing what a bad idea that is for him. “Um.”

 

Christophe smirks, shifting so they’re closer together, their chests inches apart. His suit has small glitter-covered patches, Yuuri realizes, all over the formal black. “You’re shy, Yuuri?”

 

“ _ Um _ ,” Yuuri repeats, a bit more urgently.

 

“Because I saw you eyeing Victor, you see,” Christophe carries on, a knowing glint in his eyes. “It seemed much too obvious for you to be shy with me now, isn’t that right?”

 

“ **_Um_ ** .”

 

“Chris, stop terrorizing him,” a familiar, melodic voice interrupts them, and Yuuri’s heart stops.

 

Victor  Nikiforov saunters in, wearing a gorgeous dark blue suit that matches his eyes. Yuuri’s eyes follow him without question, and he can see some other skaters turn around to give the three of them a glance, murmuring amongst themselves, probably about the three medallists being together. 

 

Christophe gives the group obviously pointing at them a friendly little wave, but Victor ignores them, raising his eyebrows at how close Yuuri and Christophe are. His lips curl upwards, making Yuuri flush and step backwards on instinct. “Unless, of course, he  _ wants _ to be terrorized.”

 

Yuuri has been dreaming about properly meeting Victor since he was ten years old, when he first discovered who he was. He's never doubted if he'd meet him - which is slightly funny, now that he can look back at it -  just made himself ready for the eventual connection.    
Yuuri has meticulously read every single interview detailing Victor’s tastes, hobbies, likes and dislikes. He has tried new food because of Victor, taken his chance on obscure Russian literature to see if he'd enjoy it, too. He's essentially been hoarding information until his mind was exhausted - it sounds a little creepy, put like that.    
  


But Victor’s been his motivation throughout the years, his “Well, what would Victor do?” in moments of weakness so he could pull himself back up. In all this time, Yuuri’s imagined countless first meetings as he was lying down on his bed with his eyes closed, whispering out possible greetings, rehearsing clever lines to use, jokes he saw online. There’s no fantasy more elaborate, no concept as exhaustively explored, and no thought as frequently entertained in his mind than finally being with Victor Nikiforov.   
  
Yuuri thought he would be prepared. It’s just - how do you prepare for something you’ve yearned for during a decade? How do you prepare for Victor - a real person, who smells like expensive cologne, whose hair is even more dazzling from up close - when he’s only ever had blurry online images and quizzes titled ‘Who Would Be Your Figure Skating Boyfriend?’

 

“I r-really loved your short skate,” Yuuri blurts out, after realizing both Christophe and Victor are staring at him, waiting for him to say something.“I, er, I thought the song was beautiful.”

 

From where he’s moved next to him, Christophe whispers in his ear “ _ Just _ the song?” His breath makes Yuuri shiver.

 

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Victor smiles again, genuine. He shrugs, sighing slightly. “Well, it’s not my first rodeo, is it? But this  _ was _ your first time at the Grand Prix Final,” he adds, encouraging. “Did you have a nice time?”

 

Yuuri knows this is classic PR work. Yuuri has  _ done _ this before: walked up to promising young Japanese skaters with faked friendly smiles and easy handshakes that left his hand sweaty, carrying the title of Gold Medallist of Japan as an introductory card. He’s never been good at it, and it’s gotten worse ever since his anxiety did when he left for Detroit, away for his family for so long, in a new, unfamiliar place. 

 

The point is, Yuuri doesn’t have any hopes or delusions about Victor actually  _ liking _ him for asking the question, just as Victor didn’t know him simply for remembering his name.

 

“It was  _ incredible _ ,” Yuuri breathes all the same, because yeah, Victor might still think he’s a nobody who got on the podium on luck alone, but he’s going to enjoy the time he has to share with him as much as possible. “I’ve never been surrounded by so many top skaters at the same time.”

 

Christophe hums, “Ah, the first one is unforgettable. I remember my first time,” he sighs, lifting a hand against his chest dramatically. “I was a changed man.”

 

“You got tired of the banquet and sneaked out to get drunk, Chris.”

 

“And you were right there with me.” He winks at Victor playfully.

 

“Are you planning for Worlds, Yuuri?” Victor asks, ignoring his friend’s jab and turning to look at him again, rooting Yuuri in place with his gaze. “It’d be good to compete with you again. I’d wish you luck, but I’m planning to win myself, you understand.”

 

Christophe snorts, “You’re not the best at motivation, are you?”

 

For a moment, surrounded by decorated figure skaters who’ve obviously been around the world for years, making themselves into stars in the sport, Yuuri feels small enough to let the remark pass, to just smile and nod, accept Victor’s polite consideration for what it is: just normal behaviour when interacting with a skater who’s practically a stranger. Victor doesn’t know how much he means to Yuuri; it’s not his fault that he’s not that interested in him.

 

But Yuuri won bronze. Yuuri’s  _ here _ , after all, despite his failings and shortcomings, and Victor is only asking for courtesy’s sake. He’s been talking to Christophe more than he’s interested in getting to know Yuuri, will probably forget all about him the moment he leaves.

 

So he smiles, sharp, and says, “Maybe I’ll surprise you there. It’s around time someone else threw you off the throne, don’t you think?”

 

Victor  _ does seem _ surprised by that, even startled. His eyes widen slightly, and he exchanges a questioning look with Chris, disbelieving. It takes him seconds before his features relax into a cold, feral smile that showcases his blinding white teeth. “I guess we’ll see, Yuuri Katsuki.” He sips from his glass, gaze heated, “I’ve always liked a challenge.”

 

…

 

Going back to Detroit feels somehow like waking up from a dream after a long time, if the dream were  _ the Grand fucking Prix _ .

 

The first thing he does once the plane lands is check his phone, smiling sleepily at the picture of Vicchan his sister sent him earlier, complete with a ‘Hope your flight went well!’ message from his parents. Yuuri’s texting them back as he takes a step outside the arrivals gate, blinking dazedly from his sleepless international flight, shuffling towards where the taxis are, when someone tackles him with a screech.

 

‘Someone’, of course, being Phichit.

 

“You’re here!” Phichit yells, crushing him with his arms. He’s squeezing him with such vigour that Yuuri fears he might start wheezing. “Yuuri, you famous medallist, you did it!”

 

“T-thanks, man,” Yuuri chokes out, trying to smile at him as he wiggles in Phichit’s grip. “I would really like to be able to breathe, though.”

 

His friend pouts but backs off, moving to stand in front of him. He’s beaming like he hasn’t seen Yuuri in a year, instead of a week, glowing in a way not unlike a proud parent. Phichit picks up Yuuri’s bag with ease, cocking his head to the side, “So…” he grins. “Did you have fun?”

 

Yuuri rolls his eyes, taking his bag and starting to walk in the direction of the exit, covering his mouth with his hand as he yawns. “Yes, I did. Celestino enjoyed himself much more, though.”

 

“Aw, Ciao Ciao,” Phichit shakes his head fondly, a dreamy sigh escaping him. “When’s he coming back, anyway?”

 

“In a few days, I think. He told me to get to Detroit soon so I wouldn’t miss many classes, but 

there’s apparently some stuff he needs to do back there.” He shrugs. 

 

“I bet they have huge figure skating coach orgies,” Phichit whispers in his ears, tickling his side and making him giggle.

 

“I would say you’re being ridiculous,” Yuuri huffs, wrinkling his nose, “but I met Christophe Giacometti, so you might be onto something here.”

 

“Oooh,” Phichit raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Did he invite you back to his room, Yuuri?” He presses the back of his palm against his forehead dramatically. “I can’t believe you’d just cheat on Victor like that.”

 

Yuuri bites his lip at that, eyes falling to his feet. He’s been trying not to think about Victor ever since he went to his hotel room after the banquet ceremony was over, exhausted both physically and mentally. 

 

It hasn’t been working out that well. 

 

“Uh-oh,” Phichit murmurs, immediately sensing that something’s wrong. He sets a hand on his shoulder and squeezes comfortingly. “You okay?” His eyes harden, “Was Victor a jerk to you? Because I’ll -

 

“No, oh my god, he was fine,” he tries to smile up at him, feeling a knot in his throat. “It’s just - I thought it would be different, you know?”

 

Phichit frowns. “Different?”

 

“I don’t know, that I’d catch Victor’s attention somehow, or I’d tell him how much he meant to me, but I chickened out. And I…” he shrugs again, helpless. “It was underwhelming. He was nice to me, just like he was to everyone else, but he didn’t take an interest in me, and he clearly didn’t feel challenged by me.”

 

“I guess I was expecting…  _ more _ ,” he finishes lamely, sighing and running a hand through his hair, wincing at how greasy it is. It feels a bit weird to bare his heart out in the airport arrivals hall, sweaty from his trip and having the worst pain in recent memory lingering in the back of his neck. “Shows you how incredibly awkward I am.”

 

“Well,” Phichit falters for a second before he sets his lips in a firm line, putting an arm on Yuuri’s shoulders. “Victor is missing out, and you’ll beat his ass at Worlds  _ while _ staring at it.”

 

“I am not beating the ass of the best figure skater in the world, Phichit,” Yuuri says, swatting at him playfully, and pointedly ignoring the rest of his comment.. “And he was nice enough, don’t get upset on my behalf.”

 

He implied he would surprise Victor at the banquet, hoping to get a reaction, but he definitely doesn’t trust himself in regards to winning any competitions (he only barely managed to skate without throwing up from nerves this time). It’s nice to hear Phichit say otherwise, though, even if he knows the guy’s mostly doing it to cheer him up.

 

“Not with  _ that _ attitude,” Phichit scoffs. “He’s getting old, anyway, you’ll show him who’s boss.”

 

“ _ Stop _ ,” Yuuri pleads, glancing around to check no one is listening. “I’d be happy forever with a silver medal, okay?”

 

His friend hums, not convinced, “Whatever you say. I still think you can take him down.”

 

“That’s good to know, even if it doesn’t make it true.” Yuuri smiles. “Now, take me home and get me some take-out.”

 

…

 

Yuri is obsessed with Yuuri Katsuki, and Victor is mildly worried it’ll turn into outright stalking.

 

It’s been two weeks since the Junior Grand Prix Final - in which Yuri managed to snag gold without a trouble in the world, easily outscoring the silver medallist. Victor was bracing himself for the sudden request to start choreographing the kid’s senior debut as promised - not knowing exactly if he’d ask for it before or after worlds, but confident that it would happen, sooner or later. He got ready for the onslaught of compliments, the pestering, the vaguely offensive threats and even Yakov’s twitching eyebrow after Yuri drank too much caffeine and skated them all into exhaustion.

 

Instead of that, though, he’s gotten a Yuri who’s begun to worship the ground Yuuri Katsuki walks on.

 

“Yuri, your mom sent me,” Victor knocks on the door, trying to make his voice cheerful. “She’s saying weird stuff about pillows.”

 

“Oh my  _ god _ , mother!” Yuri’s voice booms from inside his room, exasperated. Victor steps back in alarm once he hears something knock against the door, like he’s thrown something. “Body pillows are totally normal, okay?!”

 

Victor shuts his eyes. This is going to be more painful than what he thought. 

“Look, she says you clutch the image of a grown man to sleep every night. I think it’s okay to be a little concerned.”

 

“I am  _ murdering _ her!” Yuri growls, the sounds of him stomping around the room clearly audible.

 

“...Can you at least let me in?”

 

Yuri opens the door, seething. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s wearing a tiger onesie.

 

“What?” he snaps at him.

 

“Er, those clothes are new,” he says feebly. “Yura, where did this Yuuri Katsuki obses -  _ appreciation _ ,” he mends his words when he sees Yuri’s eyes narrow, “come from? I hadn’t heard you mention him before.”

 

Yuuri Katsuki was clearly talented enough at the final, showing off some of the best step sequences Victor’s ever seen, and no one can miss the emotional aspect of his skating, the way it richens his every move. But he’s still got some major flaws: mainly his lack of significant quads and how everyone and their  _ mother _ could see the poor man was closer than comfort to having a nervous breakdown on the ice during his short skate.

 

He’s a good - a  _ great _ skater, Victor won’t hesitate to admit it. He just doesn’t think it warrants this amount of hero-worship.

 

Yuri huffs, dropping his head slightly and wrinkling his nose, “I don’t  _ appreciate _ him. I lowkey respect the dude.” He fumes, “He can do a shit job, or a halfway decent one. And his step sequences are actually good, don’t fuck with me.”

 

Victor’s eyebrows jump. “I assure you, ‘fucking with you’, is not my goal here.”

 

“So I googled the dude,” Yuri explains, rubbing his cheek to keep off the cold. “And he’s like, this fucking  _ god _ in Japan, Victor. He  _ demolishes  _ everyone every single year, apparently, like a  _ badass _ , although I gotta say his competitors are fucking wimps. One thing I  _ can _ give him is that Yuuri has been studying at uni  _ and _ skating professionally over the last four years,  _ and _ he’s kept all his records intact.”

 

Victor clears his throat unsure what he’s supposed to add to that, “I see.”

 

“Mom’s exaggerating. I don’t have an obsession. He’s just a punk I don’t hate too much.”

 

“Clearly.” Victor’s pretty sure this is one of Yuri’s  _ things _ . “But well, not every skater has to go to college, you know -”

 

“Oh, I know,” Yuri cuts him off, smirking. “You didn’t, did you?”

 

Victor raises an eyebrow, slightly annoyed, “No, I didn’t.”

 

“It must be hell to balance school and practice,” Yuri mutters. “ _ And _ he’s studying in America, so it’s in a different language, too -” 

 

“Every skater chooses different things,” Victor swallows.  _ I chose different things _ . 

 

His mother had the univeristy application on his desk for months before she understood he wasn’t going to send it.

 

“Um, okay?” Yuri rolls his eyes. “I just point out credit where it’s due.”

 

“I can see that, truly, I do,” he ruffles the teenager’s hair, chuckling when Yuri swats his hand away and trying to bury the unexpected memory again. “But you can do that without making your mom worry.”

 

Yuri sighs, letting his back hit the mattress. It makes Victor smile, a little, to see him be this overdramatic. Yuri’s been too focused on his skating recently, he needs a break.

 

“Do you want me to take you out to dinner this week?” Victor sits next to him, crossing his legs. “You won the Junior Grand Prix!”

 

“Um,  _ ew _ ,” Yuri glares at him, rolling away and throwing one of his tiger plushies in his general direction. “As if I’d want to be seen having dinner with an old man. Besides,” he looks down, frowning a little. “Mila already invited me, and Grandpa wants to make pirozhki this weekend.”

 

“Oh,” Victor bites his lip. “Sorry for suggesting something so terrible,” he teases.

 

He wracks his brain for something to do, wondering how he could celebrate Yuri’s win. And well, the answer is only too obvious. Victor smirks, elbowing Yuri’s side gently, “Hey, we can start choreographing your senior debut soon. I’ve got some moves exclusively for you.”

 

“Hell fucking yes,” Yuri breathes, jumping to his feet on the bed and then dropping back down to his knees. “And I’ve got some killer ideas.”

 

“You do?”

 

“So I’ve been watching Yuuri’s gala from two years ago and -”

 

“No,” Victor snorts, raising an eyebrow at him. 

 

Yuri narrows his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “What the fuck you mean, ‘no’?”

 

“I mean,” Victor tells him. “That you’re not someone who skates like Yuuri Katsuki. And even if you  _ were _ , which let me tell you, I can do that for you, you’re not skating anything based off his choreographies.”

 

Yuri frowns, “Why not?”

 

“Because they’re simple and unimaginative,” he shrugs. “The man’s probably had his coaches do them for him, and none stand out.” He sharpens his gaze, “You want to be a  _ trailblazer _ , Yuri.”

 

“I think I can skate to Yuuri’s -”

 

“Just  _ trust _ me, okay -”  

 

“Um, you’re literally a glittery ice playboy, thank you -”

 

“Yuri,” Victor cuts him off, irritated. “ _I_ won this year’s GPF, so I think I’m more than a bit qualified to teach you.”

 

Yuri glares at him, “Maybe Yuuri can teach me just fine without being a  _ patronizing _ ass.”

 

“Oh my god, Yuri! It’s literally a recording! And okay, I know Katsuki’s excellent, but well,” he shrugs. “I’m better.”

 

Yuri glares at him, “That’s super classy of you, Victor. You should watch your  _ modesty _ before someone like, oh, I don’t know:  _ me _ , kicks you off your high horse.”

 

“Well, he hasn’t won any international golds at 23, has he? And I’m a five-time champion.” Victor defends himself, biting his lower lip and trying to cover up the fact that he feels slightly guilty for trying to downplay a skater’s achievements when he seemed so enthusiastic and nice at the Grand Prix Final. “It’s not a  _ bad _ thing -”

 

The teenager shuts the door in his face.

 

Victor takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It’s fine. This is one of Yuri’s temporary obsessions, like glowing shoes and collecting stamps, and he’ll be finished with it in a few weeks. That way, they can all bid Yuuri Katsuki  _ goodbye _ , Yuri will ask him to choreograph, and everything will go back to normal. Maybe he’ll always feel a little guilty talking to the man, but that’s impossible to avoid. Victor will just try to not be near him.

 

…

 

It all escalates when Yuri sends the fanmail.

 

His mother has been texting Yakov and Victor non-stop over the past week, complaining about Yuri maxing her credit card with Yuuri Katsuki merchandise and holing himself up in his rooms watching his recorded programs religiously. Victor mostly ignores her, texting her back smiley emojis, but it piques his interest when she tells them that Yuri ‘sent the man a letter of some sort’.

 

After Victor asks her what she means with ‘a letter of some sort’, she sends a blurry photo of a postcard, under the caption “I had to take it quickly because Yura is very sensitive about these things.”

 

The ‘letter’ is a handmade A4 size card with clumsy drawings of Yuuri Katsuki on the margins, covered in glitter. Pork cutlet bowl stickers decorate the back, and there’s a few lines of text that Yuri wrote. Some of them are in Japanese (Victor fears this boy might have used google translate), and he signs off with passive-aggressively praising the man’s skating by comparing it to his own. There’s even a line about how they must  _ duel _ together.

 

But, in itself, the supremely weeaboo fanmail that Yuri won’t ever admit he wrote isn’t really what changes things. 

 

It’s the fact that Yuuri  _ replies _ to it.

 

Victor’s packing up his stuff at the changing rooms in the rink, drying his hair with a towel and thinking about what he’s going to have for dinner tonight (probably take-out again), when his phone rings. 

 

“Hello?” he answers, balancing his phone with his chin and zipping up his jeans.  _ Ouch _ , he just caught his finger. “This is Victor.”

 

“Victor,  _ please _ ,” Yuri’s mother pleads, sounding desperate. “You must come and see my boy. He has been screaming in his room for an hour now and won’t let me in. He’ll talk to you.”

 

Victor flushes a bit at the consideration, “Oh, you’re too kind, I’m sure he’ll talk to anyone -”

 

“I already called Yakov and Mila, though,” she continues. “So you’re the only one left.”

 

“Oh. Right.” He bites his lower lip, swallowing hard. Of course he wasn’t first choice. What was he thinking? “I’ll be there in half an hour, okay? If he doesn’t stop screaming it means he’s alive, at least.”

 

“Not funny, Victor,” she tells him, serious. “Come here before I hunt you down.”

 

She’s a pleasant woman, Yuri’s mom.

 

As Victor knocks on Yuri’s door, covering his ears to avoid being deafened prematurely by a hysterical teenager, he has the weirdest sense of dejà vu. He spends way too many hours per week knocking on a teen’s door, it feels creepy. “Yuri? Are you alright?”

 

“GO AWAY!” Yuri yells at him, sounding furious. “YOU DON’T DESERVE TO KNOW!”

 

“...Is this about Yuuri Katsuki?” Given that all of Yuri’s recent Instagram posts have been fan videos of him insulting the man’s techniques or defending him ruthlessly against other critiques, there’s a pretty big chance.

 

“WHY DO YOU CARE? YOU’RE A SELF ABSORBED POMPOUS DICK!”

 

Children are wonderful.

 

Victor takes a deep breath. “I swear, I won’t say anything entitled again.  _ And _ I’ll listen.”

 

“Why should I believe you?” Yuri asks, sounding suspicious. 

 

“I swear on Makkacchin,” he vows, actually holding a hand over his heart.

 

Yuri opens the door then, his face flushed and his eyes wider than Victor’s ever seen him. He’s beaming, smiling without a care despite the red colouring his cheeks with embarrassments, and mumbles, “If you laugh, I’ll hit you.”

 

He looks like the kid he is, Victor thinks suddenly.

 

“I won’t laugh,” he promises.

 

“Yuuri replied to my letter,” Yuri mutters, stiff and awkward, holding the cream-coloured paper close to his chest. 

 

“Your letter,” Victor says, because he isn’t supposed to know about that.

 

“I wrote him a very formal letter giving objective criticism on his skating style and telling him that I would beat him during my senior debut,” Yuri is quick to say, narrowing his eyes and lying through his teeth, the little minx.

 

“And honestly, the reply is terrible,” the teenager continues, his cheeks flushed. “He wrote a little in Russian. I bet it was Google Translate; it sounded like a child. And  _ then _ he said my program was, and I quote, ‘incredibly impressive and a mark of great talent’. As if I needed him to say that!” Yuri sits down on the bed, head held up high. “I know very well how utterly amazing I am.”

 

“Um, yes,” Victor replies after a beat, slightly glad that Yuri’s decided to lay off the Yuuri Katsuki craze for a while. “I was thinking -”

 

“I should reply back,” he cuts him off, getting his phone from his bedside table and starting to type furiously. “He’s not going to  _ see _ that I followed him on Twitter just to see him mess up, he’s a technologically-challenged guy with a penguin fetish. And then I should make  _ sure _ I vague about him appropriately.” He bites his lower lip with enough force to make it bleed, but Victor can see the smile he’s trying to repress.

 

If there’s anything he knows about Yuri, is that there’s no better indicator for his affection than passive-aggressive insults and following people on social media. 

 

Victor wonders if replying to fanmail always makes fans this happy, so overjoyed and acknowledged, as Yuri obviously is.

 

He can’t remember the last time he replied to any of his fans.

 

“Oh,” he says, feeling guilt pool in his stomach. “That’s good to hear, Yuri.”

 

“He tells me I shouldn’t force jumps so much,” Yuri mumbles, sitting down on his bed. “He says he’s  _ worried _ that I’ll hurt myself. Honestly, what a  _ jerk _ . He’s not my  _ dad _ ! You see, I’ll skate and win against him without jumps, just to show him!”

 

_ I’ve been telling you that for years _ , Victor doesn’t say. 

 

“I bet you will, Yura, but not if you don’t practice,” he sing-songs instead, teasing. “I’m right there as well.”

 

_ You used to want to beat  _ me _ ,  _ he doesn’t say.

 

…

 

Yuuri breathes, closing his eyes, and starts skating.

 

It’s Victor’s program from the Grand Prix Final, the one he saw with his own eyes months ago. He’s in Detroit.

 

Yuuri skates - limbs moving out of their own accord, following the music with the practiced ease that comes only from endless hours of training -, and skates - thinking of who Victor Nikiforov is, who he’s been to Yuuri, all throughout his life. Whether that will change, now that he’s met him and lost him -, and no one records it.

 

It doesn’t go viral.

 

Victor doesn’t see it.

 

(Victor doesn’t come.)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it! Comments make me smile so brightly and really keep me going. I track #ttlwh and #vicchanAUfic :) on twitter and tumblr


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the coaches had already left, retiring for the night; Yakov is no exception. And yet the younger skaters all remain (Yuri and Mila included, even if they really should go to bed by now, they’re basically kids), drinking and munching on the last spoonfuls of dessert. Yuuri Katsuki’s pink, wet upper lip has just a bit of whipped cream on it from his last serving of cake.
> 
> Victor, to his great dismay, feels the urge to lick it away. God, the man is beautiful, if nothing else.  
> // They meet again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took....a long time.  
> The feedback from the last chapter was what made me continue this. Thank you so much.  
> Thanks to Natalie for being an awesome beta, and all my frens who encouraged me!!

“An ice show,” Yuuri repeats slowly.

 

His fingers curl around the water bottle he’s holding, bringing it close to him and taking a cautious sip. Celestino just marched into the changing room with the proposal.

 

“Now?” Is this a good idea?

 

“You need the money, and the publicity would be amazing!” Celestino pats his back cheerfully, making Yuuri cough. “‘An international ice show, the best of the best! And  _ bam _ !  Yuuri Katsuki is performing!’”

 

“I don’t know, Celestino,” he stares down at the flyer his Coach handed to him, clearing his throat. In the poster, a darkened female silhouette stands out against the ice, irrevocably lonely. Her arms are up as she jumps, snow crystals gathering at her feet. She looks magical.

 

Yuuri can’t be that.

 

“I’ve got finals soon.” He mutters. “Besides, even though Nationals are over, I don’t have any guarantee I won’t screw up at Four Continents.””

 

“Don’t worry about that.” Celestion waves the issue away, dismissing it without a thought. “Four Continents will be fine, and you’re very smart! I’m sure you can study while you practice.”

 

Yuuri bites his lower lip, glancing up at him. It’s true that an ice show would help with money issues (living in America is  _ terribly _ expensive), and having no pressure over scores usually means that he’s more likely to do well. But still, shows always bring endless hours of rehearsing, travelling, jet lag… other skaters.

 

“I’ll think about it, okay?” Yuuri tries to smile; winces when Celestino beams. He feels slightly guilty for not accepting the offer immediately. Celestino’s never ceased to give him opportunities, and his coach has gotten excited after the Grand Prix Final. It’s as if he’s disappointing him for not suddenly becoming the confident skater Celestino is making him out to be. His whole body is shaking, barely noticeable, from the tremors in his smile to the trembling in his hands. He grabs the water bottle and takes a sip. It’s cold. “Is there any info on where it’s going to be held, or who’s hosting it?”

 

“Yakov Feltsman and his team are on it.” Celestino smirks. “Nikiforov is the main star of the show.”

 

Yuuri spits out his water.

 

…

 

The Pulkovo airport in St. Petersburg is unfamiliar.

 

When he walks out of the arrivals gate, he’s blinded by the amount of people waiting outside. Some of them are holding welcome signs - from generic ones announcing guided tours to beautiful, handmade designs greeting loved ones- while others simply hold out their arms , exchanging warm embraces with loved ones.

 

Yuuri, for his part, gets dragged along by Celestino without getting a chance to breathe.

 

“Come on, come on,” his coach tuts. “We need to hurry to our hotel. There’s an inauguration dinner with the other skaters tonight.”

 

Yuuri, still blinking dazedly from the fifteen hour flight (a fifteen hour flight next to a teenage girl who spent the entirety of it telling him about the terrible,  _ terrible  _ thing her girlfriend did to her. Hint: she didn’t text back for an hour. Yuuri has never related so hard, to be honest), just lets himself be led towards the exit.

 

“Here’s our ride!” Celestino announces happily once they’re outside the building. Yuuri shivers and wraps his coat around himself. Even though he’s used to the Detroit winters by now, the cold still manages to numb his body completely.

 

It’s a familiar feeling, nothingness.

 

A small part of him was hoping, a bit ( _ a lot _ ) naively, that after winning a proper international medal he’d be more high-profile. Was fantasizing about fancy food, Egyptian silk on his bedsheets.

 

Seeing the small, mustard yellow car that Celestino is pointing at snaps him out of it, though. 

 

“Great,” Yuuri says weakly. 

 

Thankfully, there  _ is _ heating, so Yuuri doesn’t freeze to death. He sits next to his coach in the front, using one of his scarves as a pillow so he can rest his head against the car window. As Celestino drives (and really, Yuuri should offer to help him, they’re both exhausted), he watches the landscape pass him by. 

 

St. Petersburg is a beautiful city, there’s no denying that. His favourite areas are the eye-catching palaces and the many parks sprinkled around the city, each a small reserve of nature, standing out in a completely urban environment. He wonders, does every patch of green fight for survival in this place?

 

He wonders, how do they make it?

 

Yuuri smiles a little, eyelids drooping. He’d been missing all the green spaces while in Detroit. The car moves quietly, a steady beat.

 

It’s so  _ warm _ ...

 

“We’re here, Yuuri,” Celestino’s soft voice startles him into consciousness, and he jumps in his seat, turning to look at him. His coach smiles gently, rubbing his shoulder. “You fell asleep.”

 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Yuuri bites his lip. “You’re tired, too.”

 

“You’re the one who’s going to be skating in a few days,” Celestino reminds him dryly.  _ As if he could ever forget. _ “I think I’ll be just fine. Remember to get plenty of rest.”

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. 

 

Before he can say anything else, the car door is opened from the outside.

 

Christophe Giacometti beams at him, wearing a rainbow-striped suit and holding his hand out cheerfully. When Yuuri takes it, slightly warily, Christophe pulls him up with a flourish, grinning and pinching his cheeks. “You’re so cute, darling.”

 

“Thank you?” Is there a proper response for that?

 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Christophe carries on, lacing their arms together like they’re in a British period drama, the kind his mom secretly watches when she thinks he and Mari don’t notice. “Honestly, the party was too full of the same boring old faces.”

 

“I’m offended!” a slightly accented voice calls from the inside. “My face is delightful.”

 

“Of course it is, Georgi. Tell that to Anya.”

 

“Low blow,” Celestino mutters. He’s gotten out of the car, and leans against the fence in front of the restaurant, rubbing at his eyes.

 

Yuuri winces a bit, remembering how exhausted  he must be. They both probably wouldn’t make it an hour in, the way their day has gone. He hopes they at least have nice food. 

 

Christophe guides him into the hotel, parroting on about how nice the place is, and how dreadfully  _ cold _ Russia is, and how his boyfriend has apparently been stealing all the covers at night (Phichit does that, so Yuuri sympathizes), and just how much he adores Russian fans.

 

“Ah, the wonders of ice show preparations.” Christophe sighs as he watches them leave their bags, resting his back on the doorframe. “The hurry, the uncomfortable dinners… it’s  _ magical _ .”

 

Despite himself, Yuuri smiles. “It really is.”

 

The restaurant, strategically placed right next to the hotel (probably to avoid some skaters from either getting lost or fleeing, as both are equally likely) is the fancy, expensive version of a tourist trap. There’s chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, slightly too low for Yuuri’s comfort, and everything is white and gold, with the exception of the neat black uniforms the staff wear. Elegantly dressed adults sit in their respective tables, exchanging light conversation and sipping wine. When they arrive, Christophe takes them to a long table in the right corner.

 

Yuuri sees Victor sitting in the far left, laughing while ruffling Yuri Plisetsky’s hair, and swallows hard. Okay, he’s not going to embarrass himself. This is going to be just fine. Maybe he should sit far away from Victor, though. Just in case. 

 

“Hello, everyone,” Chris greets the crowd, beaming. He pulls his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders, pressing a noisy kiss to his cheek and branding his skin with pink lipstick. Yuuri flushes. He sees Yuri Plisetsky’s eyes widen, then him elbowing Victor in the stomach.  _ Ouch _ . “I’ve brought this marvelous skater.”

 

“Now we can  _ finally _ eat,” Mila Babicheva groans. She looks as gorgeous off the ice as she does on it, her beautiful red hair tucked neatly behind one of her ears. Her dress glitters underneath the lights. “I’m  _ starving _ .”

 

“Oh, shut up, you’ve been eating the free bread for ten minutes,” Yuri Plisetsky mutters, glaring resolutely at the table.

 

“Ooh, Yuri,” Mila’s lips curl into a smirk. She raises her eyebrows in Yuuri’s direction for some reason. “Don’t you have anything to say,  _ sweetheart _ ?”

 

“Shut  _ up _ , I swear -”

 

“You can just go ahead and sit down,” Chris whispers in his ear. So Yuuri does, taking the last empty seat available. It’s conveniently right next to Mila, who cheerfully points towards the chair, patting it invitingly. In front of her, Yuri glowers. She beams back.

 

Yuuri swallows. This is going to be a long night.

 

…

 

Five glasses of champagne later, Victor is starting to rethink his opinion of Yuuri Katsuki.

 

When he had met him at the Grand Prix Final, he got the feeling that Katsuki was shy and reserved, occasionally  _ slightly _ more daring at times. Definitely not a people person, although he had the easy charm that pleasant personalities tend to have. Someone quiet, not very prone to partying.

 

But, well...

 

“I just- I’m having so much fun in ‘merica,” Yuuri gushes drunkenly, clutching Mila’s hands with fervent passion. The female skater, who has just barely touched her wine and still remains completely sober, giggles uncontrollably. 

 

“Oh yeah?” she prompts him. The girl is incorregible. 

 

Victor feels kind of bad for the guy. Once Mila sinks her claws into someone, they’re going down.

 

(Not too badly, though. Katsuki continues to get under his skin much more than he’s comfortable with.)

 

Most of the coaches had already left, retiring for the night; Yakov is no exception. And yet the younger skaters all remain (Yuri and Mila included, even if they really should go to bed by now, they’re basically kids), drinking and munching on the last spoonfuls of dessert. Yuuri Katsuki’s pink, wet upper lip has just a bit of whipped cream on it from his last serving of cake.

 

Victor, to his great dismay, feels the urge to lick it away. God, the man is beautiful, if nothing else.

 

“Yes,” Yuuri slurs, blinking rapidly. He rests his head against Mila’s chest, making her grin. “It’s a great place. English is easier. Phichit is there.”

 

“Phichit Chulanont?” Chris asks, suddenly barging into the conversation. He seems interested, eyes narrowing.

 

“Yes!” Yuuri beams at Chris, nodding his head with enthusiasm. It hits Mila’s chin a few times, but she laughs it off, apparently more amused than annoyed. “Phichit is a good skater. He is  _ the best _ .”

 

“So are you, Yuuri,” Chris tells him. Yuuri’s grin grows, and he throws his arms around Chris, kissing his cheek in delight. 

 

“Thank you! Thank you, thank you!”

 

Victor slams his forehead against the table.

 

“He’s so  _ embarrassing _ ,” Yuri mutters, cheeks flushed. He keeps fidgeting with his cloth napkin, biting the inside of his mouth and glancing at Yuuri from time to time. “Honestly, I’m not even surprised. No sober man could kiss Christophe  _ willingly _ .”

 

_ I have _ , Victor thinks, but keeps it to himself. Maybe Yuri doesn’t have to be informed of every time he’s hooked up with a guy. That would probably be best. Yes. Very good, Victor.

 

Yuri probably doesn’t care, anyway. He’d just groan and cover his ears, yelling about how disgusting Victor is, and how sex is disgusting, and how Mila and him should just go ahead in kissing their boys forever so they can leave him  _ alone _ .

 

“Is that so?” Victor murmurs, not looking at  Katsuki. His fingernails tap against his wine glass. Throughout the night, he’s felt the urge to drink countless times, but he doesn’t want to lose control in front of  _ Yuuri Katsuki. _ Victor just...doesn’t feel safe drinking in his presence. Wants to look his best, wants to be composed and refined. The other skater doesn’t care, it seems like.

 

“I love Phichit,” Yuuri repeats, babbling. He’s sitting in Chris’s lap, legs curled up under his butt. Yuuri’s flushed from the champagne, and his hair has gotten progressively messier throughout the night. His tie has come undone. Victor does  _ not _ want to bite his neck. He does  _ not _ . Fuck. “But you know who I love even  _ more _ ?”

 

“Who do you love?” Chris asks, smirking.

 

“Vicchan!” Yuuri proclaims loudly.

 

Victor freezes.

 

Vicchan… as in...Victor?

 

As in…

 

…  _ him _ ?

 

Everyone turns to stare at the both of them, incredulous. He’s going to die. This is the worst moment of his life. Oh my  _ god _ .  _ Why _ did Katsuki  _ say _ that?!

 

(He still wants to bite him.)

 

“You love Vicchan?” Chris is still going, the bastard. “My, my.”

 

Mila cackles.

 

“He’s so cute!” Yuuri insists. Victor’s cheeks are flaming with heat. Chris is biting his lip to keep his laugh under control. Victor is going to  _ murder _ him. “He’s so sweet and cute, I just want to cuddle him forever!”

 

Yuri narrows his eyes in Victor’s direction. “Did you sleep with him?” 

 

“No!” Victor tells him immediately, anxious. He doesn’t want Yuri to get angry at him.  _ Please _ don’t let him be really upset. “I didn’t, I promise.”

 

Yuri sounds…  _ betrayed _ , almost. There’s a hint of irritation in his voice, something that usually comes with learning about Victor’s sexual exploits, something that he’s come to expect. Yuri’s tired of hearing all about him, and he’s certainly tired of him getting excited about guys and then immediately dumping them. He doesn’t tell him when he starts seeing anyone, and hasn’t in a long time. 

 

He doesn’t tell anyone.

 

But this time, Yuri’s voice carries something else with it. A tone that makes Victor’s chest ache with guilt, that crushes his heart.

 

“I just love how Vicchan sits in my lap,” Yuuri sighs dreamily. Mila whoops with laughter.

 

Yuri stands up from his seat, face expressionless. “Yeah, right. I’m going to the hotel.”

 

“Yura -” Victor swallows hard. He reaches out to grab Yuri’s arm with his hand, heartbeat speeding up. “I really didn’t -”

 

“I’m  _ tired _ , alright?!” Yuri snaps. He jerks away from Victor’s touch, wrapping his arms across his chest. “And don’t call me that.”

 

Victor goes quiet.

 

“Yuri?” Mila blinks when she sees Yuri putting on his jacket. “Are you leaving? I can walk you.”

 

“Yes!” Yuuri bobs his head up and down in agreement. “You should be safe, Yuri.”

 

“I- I’ll be fine,” Yuri mutters. His voice stutters, “I don’t need anyone.”

 

Oh.

 

“Take him to the hotel, Victor,” Georgi whispers under his breath, covering his mouth with his hand so Yuri doesn’t see. “He’s angry enough to go off on his own.”

 

“He doesn’t  _ want _ me to be there,” Victor bites back. There’s no doubt that Georgi’s right, for once, but trying to follow after him will only make it worse. Yuri gets flighty when he’s cornered, tends to run away and hide.

 

“I’ll walk with you!” Yuuri Katsuki says, cheerfully smiling. Victor shuts his eyes. Does he have to be so  _ perfect _ every time? Can’t he just - stay drunk and stupid for a while?

 

“The hotel is  _ right here _ ,” Yuri rolls his eyes, clutching his jacket close to his side. His knuckles are white. 

 

Yuuri jumps out of his chair regardless, stumbling a little from the effort. Instantly, Mila moves to steady him, smiling at the drunk skater. She links their arms together to keep him on his feet, and quickly gets her purse and coat from the table.

 

“Let’s just all walk together, shall we?”

 

“In fact, we should probably all go home,” Chris interrupts, putting a hand on Victor’s shoulder and squeezing. “It’s getting late, and we have practice tomorrow. I’m sure a good night’s rest would do us all good.”

 

_ Since when do you care about a good night’s rest? _ Victor wonders. Is the entirety of the skating world determined to ensure Yuuri Katsuki’s wellbeing? 

 

_ I’m not being fair _ , he tells himself, guilty.  _ He’s trying to make sure two minors are okay, too _ . 

 

“Sleep…” Yuuri mumbles, resting his head on Mila’s shoulder and nuzzling against her cheek. “Sleep is good.”

 

“See, even Yuuri thinks so.” Chris insists, sighing.

 

“Well.” Victor stands up. “If  _ Yuuri _ says so.”

 

…

 

There are things worse than a hangover. Yuuri is sure of this, knows that many can attest to it.

 

However, waking up and feeling searing pain in his hand, only to immediately groan and turn over, retching,  he’s feeling pretty shit. He figures he’s entitled to craving the sweet relief of death.

 

The reason he’s awake, and not still sleeping, blissfully ignoring the terrible quality of his life right now, is because someone keeps knocking on his door. Insistently. Loudly. 

 

Yuuri blinks, rubbing at his eyes and allowing himself a small whine of self-pity. His hands fumble around his bedside table (he has a bedside table? He’s not even sure of how he got to bed), searching blindly for his glasses. The knocking persists. Someone is apparently very passionate.

 

“I’m coming!” Yuuri shouts, finally putting the glasses on. As he glances at the clock, he realizes it’s barely past 6 am. If he remembers right, they’re not supposed to be down practicing and warming up (with this headache, that’s going to be  _ lovely _ , but it’s his fault, anyway) until 8, so why is a person storming down his door?

 

He walks to the door. Opens it.

 

Yuri Plisetsky is standing there, fist raised up, glaring at the space where the wooden hotel door was just a few seconds ago. He’s wearing black leggings and a cute leopard-patterned jacket, the hoodie raised all the way up to cover his face even though they’re indoors. He freezes when he sees Yuuri.

 

There’s a tray in his hands. One of those that are typical from hotels, filled with breakfast food. A steaming cup is in it, apart from some toast, marmalade packets, butter, and croissants. 

 

“Hey,” Yuuri says. He swallows. “Good morning.”

 

Yuri flushes, looking away, and thrusts the tray into his arms. “Here you go. Breakfast.”

 

“Oh.” Yuuri grabs it, still sort of confused. Maybe a little threatened. “I thought we were supposed to go down for breakfast?”

 

“Yeah,” Yuri mumbles. “But you were a mess last night so. I didn’t want you fucking up our routine and you know, our  _ ice show _ , because you failed to show up and fainted or some shit.” He pauses. “Also, Mila made me do it.”

 

Despite himself, Yuuri smiles, touched. Yuri may have a reputation for being a bit of a punk, but he’s a sweet kid. “Thanks, Yuri.”

 

The teen’s blush deepens. “Whatever. I’m gonna go now.” He scowls. “If you want to hook up with Victor again, his room is just in the next hall.”

 

What.

 

_ What _ .

 

“...excuse me?” Yuuri chokes out. He almost drops the tray.

 

Yuru raises his eyebrows. “You don’t remember? You spent pretty much all of dinner talking about how  _ sweet _ Victor is, and how much you  _ love _ him.” The teenager snorts. “Pathetic.”

 

“...I  _ said _ that?” 

 

Oh my god. 

 

Oh my  _ god _ .

 

The entire skating world knows he has a crush on Victor Nikiforov. This is the worst thing ever. He takes that back, about hangovers. Where is the nearest bottle of cyanide. Oh my  _ god _ . Why did he ever leave Japan?

 

“Oh, yeah.” Yuri kicks the wall, hands in his pockets. “Apparently you and  _ Vicchan  _  are really close.”

 

Wait.

 

“Wait.” Yuuri holds a hand up, balancing the tray with the other. He hopes the coffee isn’t getting too cold. “I said  _ Vicchan _ ?”

 

“Um, yeah?” Yuri sounds annoyed. “Isn’t that what Japanese people do when like, they like someone? Like you put the shit behind the name and it’s all, happy and shit.” He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears Yuri mutter, “I researched that.”

 

Yuuri closes his eyes. “Yuri, Vicchan is the name of my dog.”

 

Silence.

 

“Jesus Christ.” Yuri’s voice is full of horror. “I never knew Victor was a fucking furry.”

 

“No, oh my god!” Yuuri’s cheeks heat. “My actual dog! He’s a poodle, and he’s very cute! I have him back with my parents right now, so I miss him a lot.”

 

“Oh.” Yuri is staring resolutely at the ground. His ears are red. “Oh. That, uh. That makes sense.”

 

“Yeah.” Yuuri hopes he didn’t traumatize this teenager for life. Shit. He should never get drunk,  _ ever again _ . Sudden realization. “Oh fuck, did Victor think I was talking about him?”

 

Yuri mumbles, “Er, yeah. We all kind of did.”

 

“...I need a minute.”

 

He sets the tray on the dresser, letting his weight fall on the bed, and flops down, face-first. What is his life honestly.

 

“...You okay?” Yuri asks, lingering at the door. He shuffles his feet.

 

“Not really.”

 

A few seconds.

 

“You any better?”

 

“A bit.”

 

“Well.” Yuri coughs. “I have to like, go now.  _ Some _ of us want to train to do our best, and shit.”

 

“Okay.” Yuuri still hasn’t moved from the bed. His voice is muffled.  “Thanks for the food, Yuri, I really appreciate it.”

 

“N-no problem.” Yuri clears his throat, running his fingers through his hair and pushing the hood back. “You, er. I was thinking. Are you going to go and train down with the others?” He adds quickly, “Mila wanted to skate with you.”

 

“Sure.” As soon as he dies. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

 

“‘kay. I’m leaving, lazyass.”

 

It takes him about ten more minutes to gather up the courage to stand up, but Yuuri manages it, burying his face in his hands. He has to go fix this, or it’ll haunt him forever. A part of him just wants to pack his bags, phone his mom, go to Hasetsu where nobody will ever find him again, and live a life of peace, without encountering any other skater. But he needs to be realistic about this, however completely  _ humiliating _ it is.

 

He grabs his slippers, wincing at how cold it is even in the hotel room. Can’t even think of going outside, gosh. Maybe they don’t even need to freeze the ice artificially here. Yuri said Victor’s room is in the hallway next to this, so he should go, and clear things up. Apologize profusely. Beg for forgiveness. Change his name, after that.

 

With the bright morning he’s been having, it only occurs to him while he’s already outside, that he might know the hallway Victor’s in, but he has no idea about the room number. Great. Wonderful.

 

Thankfully, there are name tags on some of them, probably because of the ice show crew, and he only spends about five minutes wandering around the hall, checking every name (Christophe Giacometti is one of them, and Yuuri can hear some  _ very  _ enthusiastic moaning from his door which he does  _ not _ inspect) until he finds Victor’s.

 

Yuuri takes a deep breath. Here he goes.

 

…

 

Yuuri Katsuki is at his doorstep.

 

Not only that.

 

Yuuri Katsuki is at his doorstep, and he’s clearly half-asleep.

 

His bedhair is a mess, sticking out everywhere. He’s still wearing his pajamas, low hanging bottom part showing off a tempting view of his hips. His shirt is unbuttoned, so Victor can perfectly see the disgustingly lickable clavicles that continue to haunt him. There’s a flush all over his body, starting from his plump cheeks and slowly descending down his thin neck. 

 

Yuuri fidgets. “Um, hi.”

 

Fuck.

 

“Hello,” Victor says cautiously. 

 

“So, er, Yuri told me what I said last night.” Yuuri’s blush deepens, and he ducks his head in embarrassment, eyes crinkling. “I’m - I’m so sorry!”

 

He bends over, bowing with his hands pressed together to his chest. It makes his shirt ride up, just a little. Just enough.  Victor takes a step back and swallows, not looking at him. “It’s fine. I know I’m very irresistible, Yuuri.” He even winks, for good measure.

 

Anything to get him to leave.

 

He wonders, did Yuri come up and straight up ask the man if they had sex? Or is Yuri less incensed now? Sometimes he cools down with time, gets better at handling things if he isn’t too fussed up. But he still remembers how hurt he look, how protective he was of his adoration. 

 

Victor hopes Yuuri Katsuki didn’t fuck up and do something he can’t fix.

 

“It’s - you don’t understand.” Yuuri fumbles with his words, getting more and more flustered every second. Victor’s slightly worried the man might collapse on him. He bites his lower lip. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean - not  _ you _ \- I have - dog, - because - oh  _ god _ -” His blabber dissolves into Japanese. 

 

“Are you alright?” Victor asks. His face looks a bit green, and he  _ did _ have too much to drink last night.

 

“Yes!” Yuuri insists, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes. I am alright. Perfectly fine. Just.” He shakes his head rapidly, and then his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

 

Victor’s just in time to catch him as he stumbles and falls, letting out a soft, pained whine. Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t weigh much, although there’s definitely some mass from all the training he does. He’s small, though. His skin is  warm, feverish, maybe. Dark eyes are fluttered shut, and his hands feebly grip at Victor’s pajama, clinging on desperately, still weak. He breathes shallowly, warm air against Victor’s collarbones. 

 

Victor… holds Yuuri Katsuki, in his arms.

 

“...I don’t think you’re that alright,” Victor chokes out, helping him back up on his feet. Yuuri is still flushed, and his eyes snap open, wide. He makes a strangled noise. “Do you need to lie down, Yuuri? I can help you get to your room -”

 

“N-no.” Yuuri swallows, not meeting his gaze. “I just wanted to say sorry for the misunderstanding, that’s all! Vicchan is. Uh. Vicchan is.”

 

For some stupid, stupid reason, Victor smiles. “Yes?”

 

“Vicchan is my dog,” Yuuri blurts out. “He’s a dog.”

 

He shakes, minutely, in Victor’s arms.

 

“So all I’m getting from this.” Victor raises an eyebrow. “Is that you  _ don’t _ think I’m cuddly and adorable?” He pouts. “That hurts, Yuuri.”

 

Somehow, Yuuri flushes even  _ more, _ struggling to get out of his hold, and coughs. “I am - I am sure you are very cuddly, Victor!”

 

This is amazing.

 

“I have to go now,” Yuuri says, and runs away.

 

“My, my,” Victor mutters. A spark of hope lights in his chest. Yura - Yuri, he can’t call him that anymore - knows the story now, so will he be forgiven? And honestly, what a ridiculous misunderstanding. He feels slightly embarrassed for even  _ thinking _ Yuuri Katsuki apparently had a huge crush on him that he would broadcast to the entire world. Really, Victor.

 

Yuuri Katsuki is off limits, he reminds himself, closing the door and resting his back against him. No matter how beautiful he looks in his arm. 

 

…

 

Victor doesn’t invite Yuuri in.

 

(Victor doesn’t know if he should.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments pls im begging
> 
>    
> And find me on tumblr (@i-read-good-books) and twitter (@gomadelpelorota)  
> I track #ttlwh and #vicchanAUfic :) on twitter and tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri Katsuki is changing a few meters away from him, facing the wall, and Victor is burning up.
> 
> He takes off his clothes almost unbearably slowly, to the point that Victor is absolutely certain he must be teasing him, it has to be deliberate. No grown man needs that many minutes to slide off a t-shirt. His skin glows under the white fluorescent lights, making it even harder to look away from him. 
> 
> After some time spent biting his lower lip, shutting his eyes, and attempting not to be creepy, Victor kind of just… gives up. 
> 
> He stares; there’s not really any harm in it, as long as he doesn’t touch, as long as he doesn’t make Katsuki uncomfortable. As long as he’s quiet. He tries to choose the parts of the skater that are the most beautiful, ponders over which places he’d touch, if Katsuki were to let him.   
> // They're back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been  
> 5 months  
> but you see  
> Depression  
> love y'all  
> feedback keeps me going more than seratonin pls dont give up i am the Slow  
> how was the summer mine was gay

“This is the best thing I’ve ever heard in my  _ life _ .”

 

“Phichit!” Yuuri whines into the phone, pressing it closer to his ear and shutting his eyes. His cheeks are flushed , just from retelling the story in the privacy of his hotel room.  “It was  _ humiliating _ .”

 

“I mean.” He can hear his best friend smile, even if he can’t see him; a side-effect of countless hours spent together in the university lounge, surrounded by open text books and drooling on the cushions. Yuuri knows Phichit’s face perfectly, enough to map out every expression he doesn’t bother to hide. He pictures the dimples on his cheeks, his lips curling. “You have to admit it’s  _ one _ way to get Victor’s attention.”

 

“In the worst way possible.” Yuuri sighs, rubbing his temples. “Now he probably thinks I’m a weirdo. Thank God he didn’t ask why he and my dog have the same name. It never seemed that creepy before.”

 

“I bet he thought you were cute,” Phichit tells him, voice soft. “Try not to worry too much about it, okay? You’re skating in an ice show with your  _ idol _ ,” his tone turns suggestive. “You’ve even seen him in his pajamas, Yuuri, you wild dog.”

 

“Hush, oh my  _ god. _ ” There’s a small silence, after Phichit laughs faintly on the other side of the phone, a pause that shakes with their joint heartbeats. Yuuri bites his lower lip. He rests his back on his room door, a small breath escaping him. “I wish you were here.”

 

Phichit takes a few seconds to reply.  “Well. I haven’t won a bronze Grand Prix Medal yet, Yuuri.” Yuuri swallows. Fuck. “But I  _ will _ , don’t you think I won’t! While you’re in Russia performing to get the slightest amount of cash, I’m doing my best for 4CC, so you better watch out there!”

 

“I can’t wait.” Yuuri grins. An undercurrent of thrill runs over his skin, making it tingle. Phichit is going to make it here, he’s certain of it. And if he has to lose to someone, then who better than the best Thai skater to ever live? (Not that he’s going to lose, no sir. Not if he has anything to say about it. He’s more than ready to defend his own.) “I have to go to practice now, but I’ll call you later.”

 

“Ugh,” Phichit groans. “Not too late. Timezones are the  _ worst _ .”

 

“Gotta keep my competition on their toes.”

 

He hangs up, a pang in his chest. It feels good to talk to Phichit, in this icy land where he’s surrounded by graceful fair-skinned skaters who play him like a fiddle, with unfamiliar voices and  jokes that fly right over his head. More than anything, he wishes that Phichit had been invited, that they could go out and have a coffee together, maybe explore the city. Perhaps it’s silly, but he’s always wanted to take some time to be a tourist in the places he performs in, wanted to pose for dumb pictures and eat overpriced food that his coach disapproves of. Used to think of maybe bringing Mari, but she was always busy.

 

He’s just… he’s been alone, in most competitions. Once he’d left Hasetsu and the Nishigoris, he didn’t feel very welcome anywhere. Other young skaters were strangers, usually accompanied by their parents, and didn’t seem to like him much. No one has ever really liked him much. So he hid in his hotel room most of the time, scrolling on his phone and totally not being creepy stalking Victor Nikiforov’s social media, or skyped with his sister, who asked if he had been stalking Victor earlier (damn her). It reminded him of local ballet competitions, where every aspiring winner was cold and unfriendly, scarily determined. 

 

Moving to another country had isolated him even further, away from anything he knew. Suddenly the internet just… wasn’t enough. He didn’t have the comfort of knowing there was someone waiting at home, who’d brush the dirt off his shoulders and tell him he did wonderfully, who would kiss the top of his head fondly.

 

Thankfully, Phichit was in Detroit, cheerful and driven, always ready to drag him to frat parties and hug him tight. He really saved Yuuri.

 

Now, well...

 

It’s loneliness all over again.

 

…

  
  


The first thing Yuuri hears as he walks into the changing room, sports bag slung over his shoulder, is Christophe Giacometti wolf-whistling.

 

“Isn’t it the man of the hour?” the skater smirks. Yuuri freezes. Christophe is basically naked, only wearing his underwear. He’s broad, even for a white guy - strong shoulders and a definite layer of muscle on his arms and legs. Christophe is clean-shaven, probably waxed, though his hair is fair enough that Yuuri probably wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t.

 

The Swiss skater stands in the middle of the room, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at him with his hands on his hip. Yuuri doesn’t really know where to look.  _ Wow _ . There’s a reason the guy is called ‘Mature Eros’, if he says so himself. He’d tap that. “Yuuri Katsuki, you sleep well?”

 

“Leave him alone, Chris,” Georgi mutters, from a corner. He’s showering himself in insane amounts of cologne. “ _ Some _ of us just want to change. And  _ some _ of us are nice.”

 

“Nuh-uh,” Christophe shakes his head, curling his lips and winking at Georgi. “Guilt-tripping me into giving you my glittery mascara isn’t going to work.”

 

Georgi glowers, made even more harrowing by his dark eyeshadow. He throws a towel at him, and storms out of the changing room with a flourish, huffing and muttering what sounds like Russian curse words under his breath. 

 

(The thing about learning languages, about constantly meeting native speakers, is that you always know how curse words sound. You just  _ know. _ )

 

“Good morning,” Yuuri chokes out, swallowing a bit and nodding his head at Chris. These skaters are… intense. “Um, sorry for last night.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Chris pats him on the back. He is still very, very naked. Perfect. Delightful. Yuuri doesn’t look below his neck. “We all had fun.” He winks. “ _ Vicchan _ ’s already out on the ice, if you’re looking for him.”

 

Yuuri closes his eyes, mortified. He’d explain, but he doubts Christophe would let it go, anyway. The man had noticed his crush at the final without any other hints, and he hasn’t been very subtle since then. Especially to Chris, who seems more than adept at reading people than any of the others; his keen eye hidden by obnoxious flirtation and suave one-liners. “Thanks.” 

 

He glances around, realizes something. “Where’s Yuri?”

 

“Oh, Plisetsky’s been skating around since 5 am, at least,” Christophe says, setting his leg on the bench. His fingers start to tug at his purple leggings, pulling them up and wrapping his hands around his calves, stretching gently. “That kid’s a trooper. The minute he gets excited about something, he goes all out.” A dreamy sigh, punctuated by fluttered eyelashes. “Oh, to be young again.”

 

Yuuri frowns. That doesn’t fit.  “But he brought me breakfast to my room earlier. Like, an actual tray and everything. And he wasn’t wearing practice clothes.”

 

Christophe’s head snaps up. A slow, shark-like smile stretches his lips. “Did he, now?”

 

Before Yuuri can reply, there’s a loud, echoing bang on the changing room door. He jumps at the noise, heart racing. Christophe just rolls his eyes as he pushes his t-shirt over his shoulder in a lazy gesture. 

 

“Hey!” Yakov Feltsman’s booming voice yells through the other side. “You two, get on with it! If you want to gossip and paint your nails, you can do it later! Warm-ups, warm-ups!”

 

“But Yakov!” Christophe whines, grinning. “A man needs his time to be ready!”

 

“A man is gonna make you do two hours off ice if you don’t hurry up!”

 

…

 

Most of the time, Victor doesn’t care about what other skaters are doing on the ice. Naturally, he does quick check-ups on Yuri to make sure he isn’t overexerting himself with jumps - the kid pushes too much, having so little patience that it reminds him of  _ his _ younger years, when the world was a stage and there was only one light, shining on him; when the ice was his mistress. Reminds him of smirking in anticipation before every program. Reminds him of the thundering applause of an awed  crowd. Of hotel keys under his door and wine bottles in baskets inside his room.

 

But apart from his quasi-babysitting, he’s content to stay in his own little bubble, going through his exercises and letting a small smile curl his lips when he hears a cheer from the stands, maybe even waving a little.

 

There’s simply...a feeling, on the ice. His mind goes quiet all of the sudden, shuts itself down and throws everything superfluous away. Focuses on his body, the echo of his steady heartbeat.  It’s calm, reassuring; a flow in his body that regulates his breathing and pumps blood through his veins. Back before he was even in competitions, too young for any of them, Victor had dragged his nannies to the local ice rink when he was upset, had taken comfort in leaving muffled shouting behind thin walls and too-tight ties pressed against his throat, his parents’ cold hands on his cheeks.

 

Which makes it so utterly shocking that as soon as Yuuri Katsuki laces up his skates, already finished with off-ice warm-ups, and steps onto the rink, Victor’s eyes settle on him instantly.

 

“Eyeing up the bronze medallist?” Chris whispers. Victor turns, swallowing. He hadn’t even noticed him coming to a stop next to him. His friend flutters his eyelashes at him, blows a kiss into the air, and immediately catches it with his hand, curling his fingers into a fist. “I didn’t know you had a thing for Katsuki. Can’t blame you, though. He’s a real looker.”

 

“I don’t have a  _ thing _ , Chris,” Victor mutters, trying to smile his way out of it. He leans against the boards, rests his arms on the edge of it. “He’s just… confusing.”

 

“Confusing,” Chris parrots, amused. “In a good way?”

 

Victor cocks his head to the side, grins wider. Colder. “In a confusing way, Giacometti.”

 

Chris raises his hands up surrender. “Alright. Come talk to me when you’ve finally gotten laid, Vitya.”

 

“How’s your boyfriend doing back in Switzerland, Chris?” He never promised he’d cease the low blows. Victor gets a middle finger in return.

 

Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t seem to be going for anything particularly complicated in his program. Which makes sense, if the man was notified later on. Even if Victor would want that to be just because he has no talent. He’s skating circles around the rink gently, eyes shut. Yuuri moves in a way that oozes elegance, sharp blades kissing the ice rather than simply brushing it apart, swings gentle and sure. There’s a definite focus on step sequence and connecting elements, with safe spins, and not many jumps. 

 

Victor remembers back in the Grand Prix Final, how Yuuri had flubbed a quad, but managed to still get the complete rotations. He wonders what he’ll skate, this time, now that there’s no judges, no scoring system. Wonders what Yuuri Katsuki loves, what makes him tick, what he’s skating for.

 

Victor curls his fingers into a fist.

 

What is _he_ skating for?

 

Deep breath. He will do this. Ice show program. Five quads, two spins. Victor’s gone through this so many times that he can skate it with his eyes closed.

 

_ It’s nothing special _ , a part of his mind - the darkest, most steadfast part, the one he fears - whispers.  _ It’s just what you always do, Victor _ .  _ What they expect from you. _

 

A sudden burst of nervous laughter makes him blink in surprise, clears his thoughts. 

 

It’s… Yuuri. Held up by his waist by Chris, waving his legs in the air, not nearly enough movement to hurt him.

 

“P-please!” the man squeaks, cheeks red. Chris has him up in one of his classic pair skate moves, safely protected with his two arms, skating slowly, his legs spread out to gain balance. He’s grinning like a loon, teasing him. “C-Christophe!

 

Victor had taught him that. 

 

(Chris had kept chasing him around, all cute and wide-eyed, so Victor played with him a little, giggling at how adamant the boy was to impress him. Yakov didn’t even lecture him for that, the way he usually does.

 

_ “It’s good that you made a friend, at least,” Yakov sighed, “but teenagers and lifts always drive me mad.” _ )

 

“Have you ever done a pair skate before, Yuuri?” Chris asks, giving him a small spin before setting him down on the ice. Yuuri clings to Chris immediately, grabbing onto his arm and swallowing hard, whining. “It’s incredibly fun.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And you’re cute when you flail.”

 

“Um,” Yuuri mumbles. “Just the simple stuff, and back when I was learning. My rinkmate and I performed once or twice, but never more than local competitions.”

 

“What a coincidence!” Chris beams, mischievous. “Just like Yuri!”

 

Victor freezes.

 

“Oh  _ no _ ,” Yuri shouts, from the other side of the rink. He points at Chris accusatorily. “Oh no you do  _ not _ .”

 

“Just a bit?” Chris pouts, skating up to him and begging, complete with putting his hands together. “Come on! It’s his first time with us, we have to welcome Yuuri properly. He’s not too tall for you.” His smile sharpens. “Unless you’re simply too  _ disgusted _ to skate with him.”

 

Yuri sets his jaw, silent. He crosses his arms over his chest, looks away. “He’s better than you, Swiss cheese.” Even Victor can tell the gag is a bit...lame.

 

Yuuri seems to realize that something isn’t right, because he tries to intervene. “It’s all right! I’m not too good at it, anyway.” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sure you’re much better, Yuri. I’d just embarrass myself.”

 

The teenager’s cheeks flush. “If you’re so terrible at it,  _ someone _ has to fucking teach you, before Giacome-a-lot catapults you into the ceiling.”

 

“I can teach him, if you don’t want to,” Mila offers, smirking. She waves, winking at Yuri. “Me and Yuuri are tight.”

 

Yuuri laughs, biting his lower lip. His eyes shine. “Oh, crap, Mila. Sorry about last night. I’m supposed to be the adult here.”

 

“Oh no, we had tons of fun!” Mila punches his shoulder playfully, steadies him when it makes Yuuri wobble on the ice. “But Yuri carried you most of the way to the hotel, I must say.”

 

“I did  _ not _ -y-you were dropping him!” Yuri swats at her, waving his arms around to keep her quiet. It makes Victor smile, just slightly, to see them banter like that. Mila’s a good influence on Yuri. Makes him less distant. Brings him closer, through every elaborate hug and invitation for a sleepover. Something he used to do, before he met her. The teenager glares at Yuuri. “And you’re heavy.”

 

Yuuri blinks, swallowing. “That, I am.”

 

“You should be a bit lighter if you want to do more quads. Just a little weight loss or extra exercise on the legs would do it.” Yuri mutters, not even looking at him. “Not that you’ll be able to, anyway. I’m  _ leaving _ .”

 

“ Awww, c’mon!” 

 

“Victor,” it’s Georgi that makes him startle. The man is frowning, brushing off some ice from his legs. “Why are you just standing there?”

 

“Observing the children,” Victor winks, nodding with his head towards the rest of the skaters. “Guess we’ll just have to herd them, won’t we?”

 

Georgi narrows his eyes. “There’s no ‘we’ about it. I’m focusing on myself this season, Nikiforov,” he glowers. “You better watch out.”

 

“Oh,  _ trust _ me,” Victor glances at Yuuri Katsuki, hand in hand with Mila as they skate, his features softened from the panicked look he had when he saw all of them. Small tendrils of laughter escape them, cheers from some of the other skaters at a particularly nice move. “I’m keeping my eyes open.”

 

…

 

Yuuri Katsuki is changing a few meters away from him, facing the wall, and Victor is burning up.

 

He takes off his clothes almost unbearably slowly, to the point that Victor is absolutely certain he  _ must _ be teasing him, it has to be deliberate. No grown man needs that many minutes to slide off a t-shirt. His skin glows under the white fluorescent lights, making it even harder to look away from him. 

 

After some time spent biting his lower lip, shutting his eyes, and attempting not to be creepy, Victor kind of just… gives up. 

 

He stares; there’s not really any harm in it, as long as he doesn’t touch, as long as he doesn’t make Katsuki uncomfortable. As long as he’s quiet. He tries to choose the parts of the skater that are the most beautiful, ponders over which places he’d touch, if Katsuki were to let him. 

 

His jaw, for sure, with the way it casts a shadow on his long, pale neck, beads of sweat dripping down his collarbones. His hips, wide enough to cling onto them desperately, to be captured and held down - Yuuri’s smaller than him, but he looks tougher, stronger; he could  _ make _ him keep still. His waist, though, is tiny. Victor imagines how big his hands would be, on his frame. Could he curl his fingers around him, wrap him up in heat? Could he - ?

 

Fuck. Think of something else,  _ now _ .

 

Victor glances around the room for anything,  _ anything _ that could be a distraction. It comes to him in the shape of a small, brightly-colored leaflet next to Yuri’s black bag. Pulling a towel over his shoulders (and subtly making sure it covers his crotch), he walks and picks it up, curious.

 

“‘Explore the city of St. Petersburg,’” Victor reads, a smirk on his lips. 

 

Yuri, sticking a chocolate bar in his mouth and grumbling, snaps around, reaching up for the leaflet. Victor just holds it over his head, beaming at his furious expression and teasing. It’s nice, being tall. “Give me that.”

 

“I didn’t realize you were interested in doing some exploration.” He ruffles the teen’s hair. “I know some  _ great _ places over here, just you wait. Ooh, I have to show you around the main shopping district, and that one restaurant-”

 

Yuri jumps, snatching the papers out of his hands at last. He huffs, a strand of blond hair blowing away from his face. “Whatever. I don’t want to explore this shitty city.” There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, hopeful but hesitant. “Yuuri’s never been here before, so Mila and I thought we’d take him to see the boring, overpriced tourist stops. Make him buy us food in return.”

 

“It will be my pleasure,” Yuuri calls out, his trousers drooping a little, just enough so Victor can see the stretch marks on the top of his ass, the way they shine in the light, purple-ish. Jesus.

 

“Oh.” Victor freezes. He didn’t think… After his remark, Yuuri turns back around, flexing a bit and allowing Victor a tantalizing, terrifyingly effective glimpse of his bare back, his spine arching as he bends over to put on his shoes. Victor’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips, mouth dry, without him realizing. “Well. Can’t I go with you?”

 

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “You’re old. Just go get trashed with Chris and then hook up. Besides, you’ve been here a dozen times. Why would you  _ want _ to go?”

 

“He forgets, like the old man he is,” Chris sing-songs, slapping the teen’s neck with his towel. Yuri yelps, turning around to slap at his biceps, struggling to climb on him and overpower the man. He’s like a blond squirrel, relentlessly chasing his goal of beating up anyone available. Chris rolls his eyes and continues talking, despite the teenager hanging onto his shoulder. “But he’s right, Victor. I’m afraid we’d crash the young ones’ fun day.”

 

“I’m not  _ old _ ,” Victor whines. His throat closes up, just enough for it to be exhausting to breathe in and out. He  _ isn’t _ . He isn’t old. Isn’t jaded. Irrelevant. Worthless. Replaceable. Boring.  _ Broken _ . “I’m all up to date with the cool kids!”

 

“Oh my god,” Yuri moans. “Do you even  _ hear  _ yourself? Check yourself into a residence and let people spoonfeed you, Santa.”

 

Victor’s pulse quickens. “ _ Alright _ , alright.” He swallows hard, enough to drown out the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his head. “Want to get a drink, Chris?”

 

“Can’t.” His friend shrugs. “Georgi’s trying to get Anya back, so we’re going dress shopping. And don’t bother asking if you can come, because he’s decided he hates you this season.” Chris wrinkles his nose. “I hate prima donnas.”

 

_ Christophe Giacometti _ ... actually says that.

 

“Oh.” That’s okay, then. So... no one’s free tonight. He grins, concealing the embarrassment. He’d just assumed  _ somebody _ would like to spend the evening with him. Silly Victor. He was thinking of bothering Yakov later, but with the luck he’s having, he’d rather not get shot down by an actual old man. It’d be a bit too much for his ego. “Hm. As if I needed you anyway.”

 

Chris glances at him. There’s something, in his eyes, that shines.

 

It looks like worry. He opens his mouth, hesitant.

 

Victor waits for him to say something, waits for him to extend an invitation.

 

He doesn’t.

 

…

 

St. Petersburg is even lovelier when Yuuri has the proper time to see everything.

 

Yuri is an impatient guide, to say the least (he actually takes Yuuri’s arm and drags him to wherever he wants to go, yelling at him) but Mila keeps him mildly contained, at least. And the two teens do know their history pretty well. They inform him of the origin and purpose of renovated historical buildings, encourage him to take pictures (“Even though it’s like, totally touristy,” Yuri sighs) and make fun of the way he blinks and stutters when hearing Russian, stammering out some well-rehearsed phrases to try and communicate.

 

“Why do you have an American accent when you speak?” Mila laughs, sucking on a lollipop. Her lips are cherry-red. Yuuri can see why there’s about dozens of Babicheva stan twitter accounts.

 

Before Yuuri can answer, Yuri does it for him. “He’s been living in America, remember?” He sounds as if this should be common knowledge for anyone. “There they contaminate everyone. I bet he has clothes with the American flag.”

 

He turns to look at Yuuri expectantly, waiting for him to deny it. Yuuri just shrugs with a small smile, not willing to disclose that he does, in fact, own clothes with the American flag on them. They were a gift from a hook-up with the captain of the football team: panties. Phichit sometimes likes to take them out and put them on his head when they’re playing drinking games.

 

“You’re just jealous ‘cause you’ve never been,” Mila declares. She turns to Yuuri. “He always tries to travel everywhere, but his Grandpa doesn’t like him to be away for long, so he usually stays in Russia.”

 

“I’m 15, not 12. He’s overprotective.” Yuri grumbles, but he’s smiling softly, just a bit. It’s the biggest hint of warmth Yuuri’s seen from him, the quiet admission of feeling. 

 

“You say that as if you weren’t 12 three years ago,” Yuuri teases.

 

“Shut  _ up _ !”

 

They go to the uneasily-named Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, to Palace Square. For lunch, they go to a nice Chinese restaurant near one of the bridges in the city, and Yuri keeps going on and on about how it just isn’t worth it to eat Russian food in a restaurant, how they should be homemade dishes. Mila just tells him it’s way too expensive for their wallet. The food, no matter the nationality, is delicious. Yuri keeps trying to use chopsticks, determined to show his prowess to someone who utilizes them on a daily basis. Yuuri doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s holding them wrong, just grins and chuckles when the teenager throws rice all over himself.

 

The three of them are walking on the street, already tired from moving around so much and navigating the metro (Yuuri’s so thankful he’s accompanied by Russian speakers, because he would not be able to know where the hell he was) when someone stops them as they walk, tapping Yuri on the shoulder.

 

“Excuse me.” It’s a girl, maybe a year or two older than Yuri, speaking fluent English. She’s an average height brunette, with sweet blue eyes. Her cheeks are red. “I’m sorry but - areyouYuriPlisetsky? The skater?” she blurts out.

 

Yuri stares at her, stunned, without saying anything. The girl looks like she’s about to burst, so Yuuri takes pity on her, knowing only too well how she feels.

 

“That’s him right there,” he confirms, smiling gently. “We’re walking around the city. Mila here is a skater, too.”

 

Her eyes grow wide. “Oh my god,” she whispers, voice comically high. “Oh my  _ god _ . C-can I get an autograph?” She swallows, not meeting their eyes. “M-maybe a picture? I swear, you two are my  _ idols _ , I skate back in Ireland, but you two are so  _ good _ , and oh my god, Mila  _ Babicheva _ , you’re an  _ icon _ for women’s skating - oh my  _ god _ -”

 

“Yes,” Mila smiles. She sounds confident, but Yuuri can see the tips of her ears going red with a pleased flush. “Do you want a picture with both of us, or just one with each?”

 

Yuri is still silent, stiff and unsure.

 

“I- I don’t mind! Whatever you’re comfortable with - oh my  _ god _ .”

 

Yuuri is so, so thankful he met Victor after he was no longer a teenager. He tries to imagine going up to Victor like that, starry-eyed and fumbling, not even able to talk, and craves death. To be fair, though, he wasn’t  _ much _ better. Sometimes he still wants to just clamour for Victor’s autograph, wants to confess everything.

 

_ I saw every single performance that was recorded of you. _

 

_ I had - still do - your posters all over my wall. _

 

_ You were my first celebrity crush. _

_ I named my dog after you. _

 

_ You made me not give up on skating. _

 

_ You have always been my dream, and I still feel half-asleep _ .

 

A few minutes later, the girl is gone, after some effusive thanks and looking like she’s going to faint at any moment. Barely five steps away from them, she’s already pulling out her phone and shrieking into it, enthusiasm so obvious that Yuuri cringes in sympathy. There, there, sister.

 

“I’m hanging out with the most famous crowd in St. Petersburg, it seems,” Yuuri jokes, elbowing Yuri, gentle.

 

“She didn’t - she didn’t recognize you,” Yuri mumbles, confused.

 

“Well, no,” Yuuri shrugs, self-deprecating. “Not many people do outside of Japan. I’m not really that good -”

 

“You’re awesome,” Yuri cuts him off, eyes fierce, with an intensity that makes Yuuri blink in surprise. “You’re amazing.”

 

Yuri flushes after that, seemingly realizing what he’s said, and walks quickly ahead, leaving him with Mila.

 

“He’s right,” she says, bumping their shoulders together. Mila’s shier than usual, less of a cutthroat smile and careless demeanor. “I’m really glad you’re here, Yuuri.”

 

Yuuri’s throat closes up, leaves him breathless and unable to respond. 

 

…

 

Victor spends the morning before practice alone.

 

He goes to a bar, flirts with some of the staff, and downs enough alcohol that everything feels fuzzy and nice, but not too much that he won’t be able to skate later. Victor misses Makkachin, asks his landlady taking care of him for pictures, and tears up when he sees Makka sleeping without his favourite blue cushion. 

 

He doesn’t do his best in practice; keeps glancing at everyone in the rink and messing up things he has mastered ten times over. Victor feels empty, like someone made a hole in a damn and water is slowly, but surely, leaking out. Like Yuuri Katsuki has the biggest parasol in known history and keeps blocking out the Sun from him.

 

And then the ice show’s there, and everything goes to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! Feedback (especially comments) mean the world to me and are the reason I keep going. Have a nice back to school/work. im gay


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s a monster, Victor realizes, terrified, the loveliest monster I’ve ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: MENTION OF A MISCARRIAGE (DOESN'T ACTUALLY HAPPEN). If you want notes on how to skip this, please message me on tumblr or twitter. It's just a sentence.  
> Hey so  
> this chapter's supposed to be painful  
> sorry about that
> 
> me: doesnt update for 5 months  
> me, a week after: hey guys here's a new chapter
> 
> There are links to youtube videos before the programs! I recommend you click on them and listen as you read, because I wrote with the music in mind as a background. I really hope you enjoy this. It's a chapter I worked incredibly hard on and I'm really nervous about it. God I hope you guys enjoy this
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful being that is the ao3 user PastelBlueDahlia. They've been commenting on every chapter leaving incredibly long comments, quoting everything they love and honestly? It's what got me to write so fast. They have been incredibly kind and have dedicated their time to reading my writing and making sure I knew how much they appreciate it. Thank you. It means more than I can say...

The day of the ice show, Celestino wakes him up by horribly singing “ _ La Donna e Mobile _ ”, butchering every note along the way. The man gets tense when people assume he’s ditzy, flamboyant or stupid because he’s Italian. He especially gets a hard time because of his accent and his imperfect English (which is rich, because Yuuri’s never met anyone with flawless Italian, either). And yet, annoyed by assumptions or not, every once in a while he adores embracing the stereotype. Especially when it means robbing Yuuri of precious hours of beautiful, uninterrupted slumber.

 

Grudgingly, Yuuri stands up from his comfortable hotel bed once Celestino’s well into “ _ E di pensier _ ”. He wincing at the crack in his voice. His college building in Detroit is right next to the music students (all of them crying about money and rehearsal), so he’s gotten to appreciate some fine music and people with actual talent. Yuuri’s even made friends within that circle, a few freshmen who are making an ice skating group for fun and ask for his advice - they like to give him free tickets. So he can professionally appreciate every second of the painful slaughter of  _ Rigoletto.  _ Verdi would be turning in his grave.

 

“‘M dead,” Yuuri mumbles, holding the door open. His coach quietens, his mouth forming a shining grin in victory. Yuuri rubs at his eyes, a small yawn escaping him, and scratches his side. He was exhausted yesterday, after all the walking around with Mila and Yuri, and having to practice afterwards certainly didn’t help. He actually fell asleep in the middle of trying to study (key word: trying. Yuuri’s a college student. Studying is for the young and idealists. He dies like men). 

 

“Well, that’s a pity.” Celestino smiles, clearly feeling not the slightest tinge of guilt. Evil, evil man. “Everyone’s having breakfast together, Yuuri! You need to be one with the team. Socialization, yes?”  He winks. “Make connections!”

 

Yuuri blinks. “Like the last time I had a meal with them? When I ended up drunk and got carried home by a 15 year old?” His voice is strangled. “No, thanks. I’m good. I’ll just...order room service.” And hide from the staff because he’s too embarrassed to eat in his room, as is introvert culture.

 

“Yuuri.” Celestino clicks his tongue disapprovingly.  He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “You must be brave! Put yourself out there, yes?” He leans in, just a little. “You want some sponsors, Yuuri.” His voice loses its easy humor, sincerity coloring his words. “A recommendation would not hurt.”

 

Yuuri swallows. A second of silence. “I’ll be right there.”

 

Celestino nods. “Very good, very good.” A cheerful grin. “Ciao, Yuuri!”

 

What does one wear to try to impress wealthy, gorgeous skaters who have all already seen him at the most humiliating moment possible?

 

“Hmm,” Yuuko hums, once he’s dialed her number and apologized for the time difference. “Maybe try to be casual? I’m sure they’re not that bad! They’re skaters like you, after all!”

 

“They are not  _ like me _ ,” Yuuri sighs, running his hands through his hair. He wishes Vicchan was here. Wishes he could hold his puppy, kiss his head and touch his lovely fur. Maybe go on a walk with him late at night, where he could breathe in the cold air and gather his thoughts. It always helps, at times when he’s nervous about something. And while he’s starting to feel more settled around Mila and Yuri, he’s definitely still kind of terrified of the others.

 

Maybe one person in particular. Maybe.

 

Maybe he’s terrified he’ll run to him, instead of away from him.

 

“They’re like, rich and stuff,” he mutters into the phone, fidgeting. There’s some static on the line, but he can still hear his friend clearly enough.

 

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Yuuko laughs. “You’re a Japanese skater. I assure you Japan treats us better than most. Don’t worry too much about it, okay?”

 

“I guess, I just  -”

 

“Is that Yuuri?!” In the background, Nishigori yells, the rushed sound of footsteps nearing the phone; and then, wrenching it out of Yuuko’s hands, the brush of skin against the microphone. “Yuuri! You called!”

 

“Yeah, Takeshi,” Yuuri laughs, flushed. He’s missed the man. “We’re talking clothes; nothing that would interest you.”

 

“I’m interested! I’m always interested, even if I’m straight. We’re called  _ metrosexuals _ now, haven’t you heard? It’s catchy! Hey, Yuuri, did you check the news? Apparently America has such high cholesterol levels, are you sure you’re -”

 

“I’m fine,” Yuuri insists. For a father of three debatably evil triplets, Takeshi loves parenting Yuuri in his free time. His own parents don’t  _ love _ that he’s studying abroad and so far away from home, but Takeshi has subscribed to every American newspaper he was able to find. When he realized his college was in Detroit, with the “ _ second highest crime rate in the country, Yuuri! _ ”, Yuuri got a suspiciously placed coupon for self-defence classes in his locker at Hasetsu Ice Castle. “I swear, I’m okay. How are the triplets doing?”

 

“ _ Oh _ , Yuuri, they’re doing these cute drawings, I’m so proud - Have I showed you? I need to send them to you -”

 

“Takeshi, please, I was talking to Yuuri.”

 

“Just gimme a second -”

 

“You can have him later,” Yuuko’s voice says, fond and amused. She finally gets her hand around the phone again, laughing softly. “Sorry about that. He’s just still not used to you not hanging around on the rink all the time.”

 

_ It’s been years _ , Yuuri doesn’t say. Despite how ridiculous Takeshi gets sometimes it just...makes his whole chest feel warm, makes him bite his lip not to whisper how much he misses them. He’s grown up with the Nishigoris, had his longtime crush on Yuuko fade away, slowly made friends with Takeshi. He was there when Yuuko cried every night because the doctors weren’t sure the triplets were going to be okay, when she was so scared Takeshi might have a miscarriage and plummet down again, that he’d blame being on T even though the doctors assured them there was no risk whatsoever. Yuuri was there when they were born, perfectly fine, and visited Takeshi in the hospital, the proudest father he’s ever seen. Takeshi kept insisting about holding them all at once, even if he didn’t have the required three arms.

 

Yuuri was...scared, that they’d forget him, after he moved away. Go on with their lovely, straight-out-of-a-fairytale family and slowly wean him off their unwavering presence, like they did the triplets with milk. Forget him, stop calling as often, remember him only in Christmas postcards and stinted awkward birthday calls...but they didn’t.

 

_ They’re here _ , he tells himself, a knot in his throat.  _ If you have no sponsors, if you don’t have...him _ ,  _ you always have them. They love you _ , he reminds himself, trying to taste the truth.

 

“Just wear normal-tending-to-fancy clothes,” Yuuko says, and he blinks, startled out of his thoughts. “They’ve seen you in leggings, so I think you’ll do okay.”

 

“Thanks, Yuu,” he answers, smiling a little. “Have a nice day, okay?”

 

“I will.” He can hear Yuuko’s smile in return. “You too, okay? Give it your all.”

 

…

 

After breakfast, Yakov takes Victor aside before he can go inside the rink, grabbing him by the wrist like a kid. He would complain, but well. It’s not the first time.

 

They go to a small room near the offices, where Yakov crosses his arms over his chest and stares him down.

 

“I thought you could do a short gimmick at the beginning,” he says, completely out of the blue.

 

Victor blinks. “You mean like, the introduction? Or like a solo of the outro skating sequence we all do?”

 

“Mix of the two, maybe,” Yakov nods his head, thoughtful. “You’re the big star and draw of the show, so having you welcome everyone might be a crowd pleaser. Just glide around a little,  _ don’t jump _ , I know you, and repeat what’s on the entrance brochure.” He meets Victor’s eyes. “Think you can do it?”

 

Victor hums. “Yeah, sure. I’m just not sure why you’re asking me this.”

 

Last time Victor got to introduce an ice show, a woman jumped from the stands and ripped off his leggings, making him flash his underwear at the entire crowd. He would have been fine at that - Yakov could never blame him for a deranged fan, try as he might - but then Victor winked and flexed, showing off his glutes.

 

He was seventeen.

 

Yakov got a very, very concerned call from Victor’s grandmother.

 

Victor got the sex talk.

 

Chris got inspiration.

 

“Because you’re not doing it alone,” Yakov continues, after a moment of hesitant silence. “We’re making Katsuki do it with you.”

 

A second.

 

“What?” Victor swallows hard, his hand unconsciously covering his forearm, as if holding himself. He can’t - he can’t have heard him right. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.

 

“He’s our only international skater,” Yakov explains, biting his lip. “I know you don’t like him, you big manchild, but we gotta show him off. Besides, I’m sick of your shit, Nikiforov.” He glares. “I won’t have you be petty and ridiculous about Katsuki. He’s talented, he likes Yuri, and Yuri likes  _ him _ . You’re probably gonna see him again, you’re certainly going to compete against him some time. Leave your middle school silly rivalries at the door.”

 

Victor burns. “You never - You never say that to Georgi.”

 

“It’s  _ Georgi _ ,” Yakov huffs, as if it explains everything.

 

It kinda does.

 

“I have no hopes of Georgi giving his all if he’s not being ridiculously competitive,” his coach sighs. “But you’re spending all your practice time staring at the man, and Yuri refuses to listen to you now.” His eyes go dark with fear. “If Yuri doesn’t listen to  _ you _ , we won’t survive.”

 

“He listens to Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor mutters, kicking an invisible pebble on the ground. Yuuri  _ fucking  _ Katsuki, he doesn’t say. Somehow he doubts that would help with his “I’m not juvenile” argument. “So we have nothing to fear, do we.”

 

Yakov’s lips tighten, a thin white line. “Are you going to be mature enough to do this, or shall I ask Katsuki to do it alone?”

 

Victor’s head snaps up. “No,” he insists. “I can do it.”

 

He’s reminded of that old song he found on the internet a long time ago:  _ Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do everything better than you _ . Wonders how Katsuki will feel about this, about sharing the ice with him. Wonders if he’s already considering himself Victor’s replacement, his substitute.

 

Victor knows the whispers; hears them follow him on hallways, hushed and hidden behind hands and laughter at dinner parties. They say he’s too old, say he’s become boring. That he only wins because he’s a fan favourite.

 

_ What will he do after skating? _ they wonder idly.  _ Man can’t do much else _ .

 

“I can do it,” he repeats, swallowing.

 

Yakov raises an eyebrow. “Are you convincing me, or yourself?”

 

…

 

The hallways inside the rink are fluttering with noise, too loud to think. There’s sound checks, madness about broken costumes and someone’s period staining the fabric. A small group of make-up artists are going around, hastily making last minute touch-ups and crying when someone smudges eyeliner for the fifth time. 

 

Everyone is warming up a little, even if they’re not going out soon, for lack of anything better to do. Yuri keeps playing on his DS, furrowing his brow whenever he loses, and Mila stands behind him, cheering him on. 

 

Yuuri’s finally met the other female skaters invited to the ice shows who were staying at another hotel. Hanna, a lovely blonde Russian woman with fluent Japanese, takes to talking to Yuuri immediately, excited to get to practice her skills. Her wife is Japanese, she explains, but they speak Russian at home for the kids. She confesses, slightly embarrassed, that she watches anime to keep her Japanese up.

 

Yuuri tells her it’s not the first time he’s heard that. There’s a lot of white people who do it, no shame in being the majority. 

 

It’s nice to speak to her, he gets a few laughs out of it, and corrects her pronunciation gently, but there’s an undercurrent of nervousness in his stomach, a slow rumble that makes him want to run away. Nothing as bad as before competitions, with this being an ice show and all, but still uncomfortable.

 

And…

 

He’s… he’s introducing the show with Victor Nikiforov. 

 

They’re going to have to skate together. He’s not only finally on the same ice as Victor Nikiforov, but  _ with _ him. Going to be able to turn around and see him by his side. Because, even if he’s become a little more aware of the fact that the Victor of his dreams existed, in fact, only inside them - Victor feels like someone he grew up watching from afar. It feels like something out of a picture book, a children’s story where people get their wishes granted.

 

Yuuri just bites his lower lip, hoping he isn’t flushing.

 

“You ready?” a volunteer asks him, smiling reassuringly. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuuri nods his head. Slowly, he takes off his jacket, shivering as the cold air inside the building reaches his bare skin - one of the bad things about skating outfits. The volunteer tells her manager something via her mouthpiece. 

 

“Okay,” she tells him. “Follow me, Mr. Katsuki. Mr. Nikiforov is waiting for you.”

 

A hand falls on his shoulder before he has the chance to walk behind her, a shudder running through him. He’s only wearing a small, almost transparent layer on his arms. Chris’s voice is soft, teasing but not cruel. “Show him what you’ve got, Katsuki.”

 

Confidence settles in his abdomen, a temporary respite. He squares his shoulder. “I will.”

 

When he sees Victor, though, he barely manages not to choke.

 

Victor is...beautiful.

 

He stands against one of the white walls right outside the edge of the rink, seemingly not hearing the muffled noise of the last rows of people taking their seats, scattered chatter. His hair has been sprayed into place, glitter on grey strands that make him shine even underneath low-intensity yellowed lights.

 

And his outfit…

 

Victor’s outfits are always the talk of the twitter skating fandom, complete with numerous screencaps and several big blogs tweeting “IM SCREAMING HE DID IT AGAIN”. In this ice show, he’s wearing a completely new concoction.

 

His legs are covered, gently, tightly, by black skin-tight fabric that shines with the same glitter from his hair. But as Yuuri’s eyes trail upwards, curious and slightly embarrassed for being so  - though not enough to stop - the black turns into a dark, navy blue, on his right side. It splits off like waves, in a texture remarkably similar to watercolor. Silver spirals decorate his chest and reach his waist.

 

He looks like something borne out of the sea, a silver chandelier lost in a sinking ship, shining even in the most absolute of darkness.

 

“Yuuri,” Victor greets him, acknowledging him with a small nod. “Yakov’s been yelling me at me not to forget our cue.”

 

“You have five minutes,” the volunteer reminds them, her voice slightly higher. Yuuri glances at her, and hides his smile when he sees her cheeks reddened. At least he’s not alone in his admiration. “I’ll come by when it’s one minute to!”

 

She leaves then, quickly making her way out. Yuuri mentally praises her dignified exit. He could learn a thing or two from her.

 

“You nervous?” Victor asks. His tone is light; making conversation. Yuuri wonders how many times Victor’s asked that of skaters beside him, just how many times he’s reassured them, shared some obviously fabricated anecdotes to make them feel better. 

 

“Not really,” Yuuri lies. He turns, just a little, to meet Victor’s gaze head on. “Are  _ you _ ?”

 

Victor’s blue eyes darken. He glances at Yuuri, his eyes flickering. He’s leaning forward, enough that it’s not an accident. The muscles on his neck are flexed, tendons jutting out.

 

Yuuri can see a few drops of sweat from the glaring lights on his cheeks. There’s a roughness to his voice that startles him. “Should I be? I don’t think you have it in you, Katsuki.”

 

Yuuri doesn’t know what he’s doing. His palms are sweating. His heartbeat is going mad. He doesn’t move away, even though something in him is screaming to. That this is spinning out of his hands.

 

That doesn’t mean he wants to stop. 

 

(Does it? It’s hard to think when he can  _ smell _ Victor Nikiforov. When the air seems to be charged with electricity. When the noise from people outside make his head spin.)

 

“Maybe you should be,” Yuuri murmurs, lifting his chin up. Their height difference is much more obvious near him. Yuuri has to give his all to stay in his sights. There’s heat in his chest. Something is about to burst. “I’d like to see that.”

 

Victor’s jaw is clenched tight. They haven’t looked away from each other.  His eyes narrow, cold and yet flaring with fire. “Then you should start earning it, Yuuri Katsuki.”

 

Yuuri swallows hard. “I -”

 

“One minute, guys!” the volunteer calls. Yuuri jumps away from Victor, suddenly realizing how close together they’re standing. He feels flushed, weird and tingly. Yuuri...doesn’t know if he likes it, or if it’s too much, too close to falling down a bottomless pit with no way of securing his way out. He swallows again, feeling his throat bob. 

 

“Thanks,” he mutters, and Victor echoes him.

 

The outside is silent, now.

 

“Go!”

 

And then they’re out on the ice, and he can only think of the feeling under his feet.

 

…

 

After the presentation, the ice show begins with Christophe.

 

Apart from Yuuri, he’s the most international star invited, and the crowd recognizes - and, most importantly, loves - him. Unsurprisingly, his performance is all flair; full of wide moves, transitions and spins that show off just how flexible he is. Everyone claps enthusiastically after he erm,  _ finishes _ .

 

From then, the younger skaters go out. Yura -  _ Yuri _ is one of the firsts, since he’s so young - a fact that he eternally despises, the petty baby. Victor watches him as he flows on the ice, holds his breath at every jump, even if Yuri hasn’t screwed one up badly in months. It’s a beautiful program, it really is - packed with subtle spirals and connecting elements. Not Yuri’s usual style, something the crowd notices.

 

Quite reminiscent of Yuuri Katsuki, though. Victor’s jaw aches from gritting his teeth.

 

Mila, with a triple rotation that makes the audience gasp and clap loudly enough to make Victor’s ears ring. He grins, just a little. He’s heard something about Mila possibly trying a quad at 4CC. If the way Yakov’s been glaring at her recently and putting her off ice is any clue, then it’s probably true.

 

Dominic, clad in gold and skating to  _ Under Pressure _ , cracking out hoots and whistles. Esther, a stunning cloud of rose bewitching the crowd with  _ Hallelujah _ by Cohen. Someone throws out a pink rose, makes her blush and wave. 

 

And finally.

 

Yuuri Katsuki.

 

There’s an excited cheer that runs through the rink at Katsuki’s first moves, skating into everyone’s sights. A couple in the stands holds up a sign; it reads “JAPAN CHAMPION”. However, the skater doesn’t glance at them or wave or anything, like some of the younger ones did.

 

Seeing Yuuri like this - calm, collected, completely focused and unwilling to be deterred -  is almost...unsettling. Yuuri Katsuki is a creature of soft friendliness if nothing else. He speaks polite English, always meets people’s eyes, and manages to make friends with every skater he comes across. Even the barest hints of an edge that he shows sometimes - the type that make Victor’s blood boil and his teeth hurt - they can’t prepare him to see him just before he performs at the ice show.

 

No scoring, no placing, no judges. Just a crowd.

 

The light on the ceiling focuses on him; a pale, intimate silver. Yuuri Katsuki breathes at the centre of the ice. From the stands, Victor can see him in all his glory. Can’t help but find his mouth dry as he focuses on the [man’s costume.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B962ykUdNqaRSkJuVjIzeGU4am8/view?usp=sharing)

 

It’s not even that - a costume, that is, because it covers almost  _ nothing _ . Apart from the skirt that flows around his waist, a purple and black beauty, he’s almost exclusively wearing beads over a skin-coloured leotard. Purple, stellar white and black fit together to shape a current of waves swirling upwards on his torso. It ends, majestically, with a shining necklace that makes him seem like a prince.

 

Victor swallows.

 

The light disappears, just for a second.

 

[ And then the music starts, a tentative heartbeat in the dark. Light comes back. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPThKujmVcI)

 

Victor can’t look away.

 

The program starts with an inward stylised breath, a minute movement. A beat of stillness followed by a smooth, unassuming inside edge and turn. Quietly,  _ beautifully _ , Yuuri pushes back, so subtle it could be an accident, his free leg raising into back attitude. 

 

The slow, easy moves...the rise and fall of his action… It reminds Victor of the first seconds after waking up; the rehearsed routine of resigning oneself into go out, be seen. Yuuri is, for lack of a better word, blooming in front of their eyes. 

 

Beside him, Yuri is staring at Yuuri, his eyes wide with wonder. There’s a small smile on his face, a hint of teeth, the light from the ice reflecting in his eyes. The railing Victor is leaning on feels wet. His hands are sweaty. 

 

As the first line of the song begins, Yuuri recedes into an inside mohawk, elegant and sure. He dances ellipses around the long rink; unhurried, unconcerned. His arms play with the imagery. One second they wrap around his body, retreat into himself and hide him...only to extend outwards, every ripple of intensity reaching the audience.  Yuuri’s pace gains the slightest hint of speed as he skates, moving from one side of the rink to another in a criss-cross motion. His arrival is punctuated by a magnificent outside-edge spread eagle, his body bending in a steep diagonal.

 

Victor can believe (can hardly  _ deny _ ) why people praise his step sequence. A relaxed, fluid Yuuri Katsuki leaves one speechless, as proven by the awed silence from the audience. It feels like he’s dancing, inviting anyone watching to join him. Victor swallows hard.

 

It’s a bit similar to torture, watching him. Knowing it’d be better, that it wouldn’t hurt as much, if he just hid and didn’t watch, but finding himself glued to his spot, unable to look away.

 

Katsuki lands triple toe; his first jump (it must be a minute in. Safe, enough). It’s a culmination of the heightened tension from his speed, an unraveling. Everyone claps, despite Victor’s resigned disbelief. Sometimes skating fans see someone soar off the ice and cheer, when the beauty is somewhere else. 

 

Though, to be fair, one’s never guaranteed a jump when it’s Yuuri Katsuki.

 

Yuuri gets to relax once again, going back to slow, drawn-out moves. The music speeds up, piano trembling under steady hands. It’s such a contrast, after hearing the soft tempo for over a minute now, that Victor’s heartbeat picks up instinctively.  _ Something is coming _ , it seems to say.

 

Yuuri follows the music, briskness integrating into his whole body. He glides to one of the sides,and transitions from a half-turn to his second jump, to scattered clapping and quiet cheers. Victor’s slightly stunned that he’s landed two already, even if they’re not quads. Back at the Grand Prix Final, it was clear to anyone with eyes that Yuuri Katsuki and jumps did not go well together.

 

He doesn’t unwind after the second jump, unlike the first time. Yuuri becomes even more nimble, the tempo leading the agility of his moves. Every single gesture he uses pushes outwards, reaches to the farthest he can get. Victor half thinks, despite its ridiculous irrationality, that Yuuri will be able to touch him, will be able to graze him, if he keeps this up.

 

A spiraling, crossing glide ends with him returning to the centre of the rink. Above him, the light is so bright that the reflection from the colored beads blind Victor. In a half-spin, he falls to his knees on the ground, and Victor winces automatically. That’s always a risky move, and gets skaters hurt more than once if they’re not careful.

 

As his leg touches the ice, Victor bites his lip. There’s nothing submissive or reminiscent of bowing down in his kneel. It’s a powerful stance, one punctuated by his arms, stretched out, spinning around him. He’s swaying while perfectly in control, utilizing every sliver of movement he can get, until it seems like the strength of his arms pushes him back to his feet again in a smooth transition.

 

For a single, crystallized second, Katsuki puts his feet together, lets his left arm fall to his side, melting into his body, and raises his right arm to the sky. He becomes a single line of purple and black on the rink. His palm opens, all fingers taut, and closes, as if stealing away a hidden invisible treasure floating, right under their noses. Without any rush in the world, his stance progresses into a layover camel spin. As he rotates, his leg reaches well above hip level, his head turned up to face the ceiling. 

 

The spin evolves, completely naturally, into a catchfoot camel. One of his arms stretches outwards, hand out as if inviting the audience to dance, and the other reaches back to hold his foot up. It goes on for longer than what most male skaters can manage, even though the speed isn’t too much higher. Yuuri Katsuki gives the audience a show of  _ just _ how flexible he is, of how his body bends and twists while balanced on a blade that could cut him down.

 

After a few seconds, the spin finishes - Yuuri lets go of his foot, straightens up - but his free leg still rotates. The skater moves his arms to form a circle at the height of his shoulder. A ballerina pose, Victor realizes with wonder. He didn’t...he never knew Yuuri Katsuki had practiced ballet. His costume accentuates the short move, the skirt flying wildly around his hips. It’s...it’s stunning.

 

Yuuri twists and turns out of the rotation, finally ceased. He slides around the rink, a deft string of silk, and abandons the centre. In fact, he arrives at a part of the rink he hasn’t been in, before: directly in front of where Victor ( _ and the rest of the skaters, and the rest of them, it isn’t just  _ you) are watching. From so close up, Victor can see the way the sweat makes his skin glisten under the spotlight. Mere meters away from him, Yuuri meets his eyes - dark, inviting,  _ challenging _ \- and performs an impeccable triple axel, to the enthusiastic clap from behind Victor that is surely Yuri’s. Immediately afterwards, Yuuri turns away from him.

 

Victor swallows hard. His abdomen hurts, pricks of...of something akin like nerves. He hasn’t felt that before an ice show in  _ years _ . And yet Yuuri Katsuki meets his eyes, and Victor feels laid bare, empty, carved out till there’s nothing left. 

 

But despite how much he wishes for it to be over, Yuuri isn’t finished yet. Right as the singer holds on a high note, pitch-perfect, he bends into one of the most exquisite layback Ina Bauer’s Victor’s witnessed in his professional career. His body becomes an X-shape, back managing to arch almost as much as Yuri’s when he practices it (and the boy is a teenager whose limits are practically non-existent). 

 

And as the singer grows quieter, Yuuri closes in on himself, ending the move. The tempo slows down, returns to its original pace - Yuuri follows. For a moment, he stands in the centre, completely still, head bowed towards the ice. Revering. He ventures out to the edges of the rink once more, gains the barest hint of momentum, and lands a swift triple axel that sparks wondrous claps from the stands.

 

_ He’s a monster _ , Victor realizes, terrified,  _ the loveliest monster I’ve ever seen _ .

 

It’s unfair, that he’s rooting so strongly for this skater to fail, that he’s tense as he watches, eyes never leaving the lithe figure tracing a line before and after his performance. He knows it’s unfair. 

 

_ Yuuri Katsuki is unfair _ .

 

Yuuri finishes where the entire spectacle began. He drifts - not unlike a ship following an inevitable tide, lulled by the waves - towards the centre for one last time, and begins a T spin, one of his hand reaching skywards. Suddenly, his whole form drops into a sit-spin, but it lasts for such little time that Victor could have missed it, had he blinked. Yuuri wastes no time falling, and instead surges for the last time, still holding his foot in a diagonal cutting into his body. 

 

And it ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Yuuri Katsuki slows to a stop as the music fades, leaving Victor’s skin tingling with unreleased energy. He stands still, arms around himself, - wrapped his body and sealed the deal with a purple ribbon. Yuuri looks up, harsh breathing. The light goes out.

 

The clapping is deafening.

 

“That was impressive,” Victor hears Yakov grudgingly admit. Chris laughs next to him, elbowing him. 

 

Behind him, Yuri is telling Mila excitedly about what inspired every move, and what the song is supposed to mean, and how Yuuri’s never done a triple lutz at an ice show before and -

 

Victor just -

 

He needs to  _ leave _ .

 

He can’t be here. Can’t just -

 

Can’t  _ breathe _ -

 

Victor leaves in a hurry, uncaring of how it might seem, air coming in through shallow breaths. He tightens his jacket around himself, biting his lip and closing his eyes in the hallway, back hitting the wall.

 

“Come on, come on,” he whispers to himself in quiet, trembling English. “Come on,  _ Vitya _ .”

 

It’s gonna be fine. It’s - It’s an ice show program. Yuuri Katsuki did well; so what? Victor’s always known he was going to have competition, and he’s not even trying to win anything here. What - what he has to do is get out there and show everyone why they call him the modern king of figure skating. He won’t let Yuuri Katsuki show him up.

 

He isn’t allowed to take that. Skating is Victor’s. It always has been.

 

His hands curl into fists.

 

“Sir?” It’s a volunteer. Victor glances up to look at him. “Your turn.”

 

Victor smiles. “Thank you.”

 

He takes the jacket off.

 

There’s something he has to do.

 

…

 

[ It happens a minute in. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pS-gbqbVd8c)

 

Nobody is expecting it. Nobody quite knows what it means.

 

Victor is skating beautifully, as is the norm. He’s slightly faster than usual, yes, but only someone who has been watching him for years would notice that. The music is a Game of Thrones instrumental piece, so ominous that it ratchets up the tension. Its beat accompanies the foreboding, melancholic nature of Victor’s moves, the way his arms seem to reach out and yet never touch, the desperation in his stance.

 

And then he performs his signature move, the quad flip - at the usual time, not too late to be a dangerous strain on his body - and...doesn’t land it.

 

He doesn’t even complete the full four rotations. At the end of the third, the tip of his foot, the blade, catches against the ice, and Victor stumbles and falls on the ice, hands rushing up to stop him from crashing.

 

There’s a hushed silence -  _ What happened? Wow, that was shit luck. _ Yuuri Katsuki’s panicked,  _ Is he okay?! _ \- before the crowd remembers one still claps even if the skater misses the quad.

 

It’s just...that skater’s never been Victor Nikiforov before.

 

Sure, he’s made mistakes all along his professional career - the man isn’t a god - but they’re all usually minor. Or if they’re a bit more serious, he recovers from them fast, determined not to let it faze him.

 

But after he screws up the quad flip, he seems nervous. Frustrated. Fidgety. Victor doesn’t do any more quads, despite the fact that his program planned them in, and his transition elements look rocky and strained.

 

_ Is he sick? Is his Coach forcing him to perform? Is he eating okay? I always knew too many quads weren’t a good idea… _

 

_ Hmm… that Katsuki guy who skated before him seemed much better. Didn’t you say this was the gold medallist, Cara? _

 

_ Oh my god. Stan twitter is gonna be  _ devastated.

 

_ I hope he’s not too hard on himself! _

 

_ Jesus. Well, there goes the money I blew on this fucking ticket to see Nikiforov skate up close. _

 

(Victor can hear them. Victor can hear them. Victor just wants it to  _ stop _ -)

 

…

 

Yuuri bites his lower lip, wringing his hands together. His feet keep tapping on the ground, making small noises that distract him. He’s waiting inside the changing room, already wearing his tracksuit.

 

He’s waiting for Victor.

 

It was...rough, seeing him on the ice. Yuuri’s heart was breaking, bit by bit. And after that, Victor wasn’t himself in the ice show outro; kept skating without saying a word, and didn’t even look at anyone. Even when everyone else was in the changing room, oddly subdued, Victor didn’t come in to change. Yuuri is...he’s worried.

 

He’s worried because there’s something clearly,  _ clearly _ wrong with him. Something that is hurting him inside. Maybe even an injury, which would be terrifying.  And, while he knows he isn’t Victor’s closest friend or whatever, they’re still acquaintances. Sometimes skaters are the best people to cheer up other skaters, in matters like these. At the very least, he wants to show his support.

 

Yuuri’s thinking about it, turning it over and over in his head, biting his lip so hard it  _ bleeds _ \- when the door slams open.

 

His head snaps up at the sound, startled. 

 

It’s Victor.

 

He’s still wearing his costume, the traces of blue making his pale skin shine. Victor’s hair is a mess, as if he’s been running his hands over it multiple times, and the gel’s managed to make it into tense spikes that look almost comical. The make-up on his face - the one the team worked so hard on before the show, enthusiastic and smiling - is smudged all over. There’s rivers of mascara running down his cheeks, his dark blue eyeshadow staining his cheekbones.

 

Victor’s been crying.

 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Yuuri shouldn’t be in here. He’s intruding,  _ really _ fucking intruding, this isn’t his place - He stands up, trying to turn away as quick as he can -

 

“What’s the problem?” Victor asks.

 

His voice is cold as ice.

 

“N-nothing,” Yuuri mutters, flushed with shame. “I was just leaving.”

 

And he steps forward, ready to do just that when - 

 

“Saw your program,” Victor drawls out, all false cheerfulness and bright tone, colored by upbeat amusement. “Quite cute. Mediocre, even for an ice show.”

 

Yuuri’s stuck, shocked into place by Victor’s words. He can’t move. His eyes sting with unshed tears.

 

_ I wanna skate on the same ice as Victor someday! _

 

“Not even a quad, was there? Tsk, tsk.” Victor laughs, shaking his finger reproachfully, and it’s terrible, it’s horrible. It makes Yuuri sick. He wants to throw up.

 

The universe is cruel.

 

_ Victor does it like this, see? Wow, Yuuri, you’re so good! _

 

“I wanted to tell you before,” Victor adds, smiling sheepishly. He presses his finger to his lips, blinking innocently. “But I couldn’t quite recall your name.”

 

Yuuri’s lips clench into a thin white line. He will not cry. He will  _ not _ cry. He will not cry he will not cry  _ he will not cry _ -

 

“Well. If you have nothing to say,” Victor is airy, nonchalant. “I’m going to go now.”

 

And he does.

 

He leaves Yuuri alone.

 

And there’s nothing to stop the tears when nobody can see.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this long and intense chapter! I'm nervous akjdfk. Comments and kudos are.....Goode...I guess.....if you wanna leave them...........  
> Gahh I'm really nervous haha  
> (remember to check me out on twitter or tumblr, where i track the #ttlwh and #vicchanAUfic tags)  
> (also uhhhh if u draw fanart u can write my eulogy bc id die)


	5. Chapter 5: Rest Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along the way home, they rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR CONSENT WARNING: CHARACTER ISN'T FORCED, BUT THEY ARE IN AN EMOTIONAL STATE WHERE ANY CONSENT IS DUBIOUS AT BEST.
> 
> PLEASE CHECK TAGS AND RATING CHANGE
> 
> Thank you for the overwhelmingly positive review from the last chapter <3 I hope that I don't disappoint. This is a less exciting chapter

The bouncer at the club takes one look at Victor - who’s wearing hastily thrown-on brown leather pants and a black crop top, eyes still red from crying, flashy bracelets twinkling under the streetlights - and steps aside to let him in. Victor smiles at him, winking in appreciation with the smallest of nods. It doesn’t work quite as well as usual, but well.

 

It’s loud - just loud enough to drown out Victor’s thoughts, to make his pulse resonate inside his head and shut down every frantic impulse in his body that screams at him. Beat-heavy electronic music is playing - the farthest he can get from classical and slow, from quiet cellos carrying on unconcerned as he falls, and  _ falls _ , and it  _ hurts - _

 

Victor swallows.

 

“Hey,” a guy yells behind him. Victor blinks, turning to look at him. “Are you gonna move or what? Don’t just stand there, you twink.”

 

Victor rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue audibly. It’s a shame the effect is lost in a place equipped with loudspeakers. He sets his hands on his hips and stares him down. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

 

“Jesus, man. Take a chill pill.” The man shakes his head, not even bothering to reply, and turns back the way he comes from. Whatever.

 

Victor eyes the bar on the right side of the crowded club, and makes a beeline for it, smirking when he sees some people turn around to see his ass in leather pants. Perfect choice for an evening out. He might be freezing, but it’s worth it. Everyone’s looking, everyone wants him.  _ Him _ .

 

“One vodka, please.” Victor flutters his eyelashes at the bartender. 

 

It’s gonna be a long night.

 

…

 

The man is taller than Victor. 

 

He has long blond hair - it vaguely reminds Victor of  Lucius fucking Malfoy from the Harry Potter movies (a fact that he’s been trying to put out of his mind before his dick goes soft) - and squinty green eyes that are soaked in unnecessary eyeliner. The guy doesn’t actually speak Russian or much of English, Victor’s checked, but the hand gesture for dick sucking is apparently universal, because he gets it,  _ immediately _ .

 

Victor wants to take him outside, maybe get each other off in an alley or something (not too classy, he knows), but the guy pulls on his belt loops and drags him to the men’s room. He’s strong, Victor realizes while being pushed hard. It’s hot, kind of. Victor can’t really tell what turns him on after five vodkas. 

 

Sometimes it’s a muscular Adonis who could pretty much push him against the wall. Other times it’s watching a Gordon Ramsey show. This, he justifies to himself, is gay culture.

 

The toilet isn’t empty - there’s a middle aged man who fell asleep while pissing on the urinal, a guy trying to yell at someone through the phone in coarse Spanish. But Victor doesn’t really get much time to notice, what with his er,  _ companion _ , pushing him inside a stall, handsy and rough.

 

Victor falls on the toilet, a little. His legs are jelly from - from before, and dancing for hours hasn’t helped much. He feels like he’s going to fall any moment. His spine aches. The stall stinks of piss and come.

 

( _ I want to go home.) _

 

The guy starts unzipping his pants, groaning a little at he’s being freed from the pressure (he’s wearing jeans, the poor man), but Victor puts his hand on his chest, trying to get his attention.

 

“The door,” he says in English, hoping the other man will recognize it. His eyes remain unfocused on anything but Victor’s bare stomach, not really appearing to take in what he’s saying. Victor’s got to try, though. “It’s - Did you lock the  _ door _ -?”

 

He moves to check, pushing the man with his hips to get to the other side of the stall. But Victor can’t get very far before the guy grabs his wrists, curious. He raises an eyebrow at Victor, almost as if he’s asking  _ Don’t you want to? _

 

“I just -” Victor’s voice shakes, just a little. It doesn’t just - It’s just a little. His face is flushed, chest heaving. 

 

_ I want to go home _ .

 

“Lock? On the door?”

 

_ I want nobody to see me like this _ .

 

The guy seems to get it after a bit more pointing and gesticulating, because he locks. And turns around, expectant.

 

Victor bites his lip.

 

He goes on his knees.

 

…

 

When Victor crawls into his hotel room at 3 am, sniffling, still smelling like some other guy’s come, and barely conscious given  his blood-alcohol level, Chris is waiting for him.

 

Victor blinks at him, startled. The man is sitting on his hotel bed, phone in his hands, wearing  shitty My Little Pony pajamas that - that Victor bought for him as a joke, like two years ago, in retaliation for the man calling him a furry. The phone clutters to the ground as soon as Chris hears the door slam shut, his head snapping up. Chris’s gaze flickers all around him, up and down, as if taking in the entire scene. Victor wants to cover himself, just a little. He thinks there’s maybe come on his crop top.

 

“Fuck, Victor,” Chris says softly. He stands up, walks towards him without hesitation. Victor tries to protest, laughing weakly and not meeting his eyes. He smells way too bad for anyone to want to touch him. And yet. And yet Chris just looks at him, with deep, wide eyes that he knows so well. With the glance he knows so well, has come to recognize in milliseconds these past few months.

 

This isn’t the first time he does this. 

 

Even if he hadn’t been in Russia- even if Chris hadn’t seen him. He had to have suspected. He knows how someone looks after they’ve been fucked too hard to skate the next day. He can smell alcohol in his breath. He’s seen the way he looks at the pretty interviewers.

 

Chris isn’t stupid.

 

“What the fuck are you doing to yourself,” Chris whispers, and his voice cracks and - and - and -

 

Victor just fucking  _ falls _ .

 

Falls right into Chris’s arms, crying and calling out his name in blubbering sentences. Falls with him onto the bed, with his friend’s arms wrapping around himself and the soft murmurs pressed against his hair. Falls down and down and  _ down _ , until his eyes are sealed shut because he doesn’t want to  _ see _ .

 

He cries for a long time.

 

Victor doesn’t cry that often. It bothers some people, he knows. Makes them feel like he’s never sad, or he’s just pretending all the time. There’s accounts on various social media accusing him of being a sociopath (which shows their ableist bias pretty damn well). Crying for him feels like giving up - like admitting defeat. Why waste his time crying, if he can do better? If he can train harder? Longer? 

 

Crying is a useless feat, one that alarms him, that tells him there’s no more to do. Two or three times, one of Yakov’s skaters has started crying in front of him, and Victor had no idea what to do with them. Just stood there very awkwardly and patted their back in stilted, stiff movements. Tried to remember what mothers in movies did when children cried.

 

Chris lets him cry it out, the way he hasn’t since before he can remember. Even earlier today, the harrowing, oxygen-lacking sobs he let out were in private. Hiding behind a curtain, locked in a restroom, alone in streets at the uncaring hours of the early morning, when people turn a blind eye to the miserable. 

 

And yet now...the hotel bed is soft under them, but Chris’s stupid pajamas are softer. He nestles Victor on his lap, against his chest, and holds him there. Stays quiet,  _ blessedly _ quiet. Doesn’t shy away from his painful, ugly tears. From the sound of mucus and sneezing that come along with it, that stains Chris’s clothes and probably grosses him out immensely. Doesn’t try to stop him, or shush him well-meaningly. Chris wordlessly gives him tissues, and caresses the back of his neck in circular, repeated motions.

 

Chris just...cares for him.

 

It goes on for what feels like an eternity, before his sobs quiet, become less frequent - hurt a little instead of being suffocating. 

 

“Victor, Victor,” Chris kisses his forehead, hugs him close. Maybe it should remind Victor of when they fucked, should make him cringe away or feel icky, in these moments. But it doesn’t. Chris feels right. Feels like the closest thing to home he’s got, right now. Victor’s hands tighten on the man’s pajama top. He misses Makkacchin. “Victor, you lovely bastard. Why did you sneak out?”

 

Victor shakes his head quickly, mute. He doesn’t want to say. 

 

“I waited, you know.” Chris isn’t interested in what he wants. Never has been. “By the time I realized you used the back door, you were gone already.”

 

He shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to talk about it -

 

“I’m gonna shut up now,” Chris continues. “Because you don’t need this at the moment, you poor soul.” He runs his fingers through Victor’s hair, sighs gently. “But we’re talking about this once you’re better.  _ And _ we’re getting you tested.”

 

Reluctantly, Victor nods.

 

“Now, get up,” Chris tells him. His voice holds no retort. “We’re dragging you to the shower, gonna get your teeth brushed, and into bed.”

 

…

 

Yuuri is quiet on the plane ride back to Detroit.

 

He holds a card in his hands, turning it over and over. Feels the roughness of the cut edges against his fingers when he brushes over them. Touches the smooth paper, the minute bumps the ink leaves as it brands it.

 

“ _ Call me, will you?” the man grinned, all bright eyes and lopsided smiles, with rat’s nest hair. Despite that, though, his suit was probably more expensive than Yuuri’s tuition. He gaped at him, slightly overwhelmed. There was barely a thin jacket over his shoulders, and his legs were bare except for his leotards. Yuuri was still sweating. _

 

_ “I saw your performance,” he insists when Yuuri asks, again, if he’s sure. “You’re goddamn right I’m sure I want to sponsor you.” There’s the weirdest sense of sincerity coming from him, like he just wouldn’t have it in him to lie. “You’ve got real talent, Katsuki.” _

 

_ “Call me!” _

 

He hasn’t told Celestino.

 

If he had, the man would have called the sponsor - his name is Alex Wymack, the card reads - already, asked him for fees, and dressed up Yuuri in a bunny outfit, wrapping a bow around him for good measure. Celestino’s a good coach, yeah. He takes care of his skater’s everything - choreography, music, costumes, emotional breakdowns… But despite the fact that he’s passionate as hell about the sport (and he  _ is _ , Yuuri’s seen him go wild after a recording of Surya Bonaly’s backflip) he wants money. 

 

He’ll take the sponsor, he’ll milk both Yuuri and Wymack out, and smile in the pictures.

 

Yuuri’s hand tightens around the small rectangle of paper. He bites his lip.

 

In any other circumstances, Yuuri would have made the call himself.

 

_ Quite mediocre, even for an ice show _ .

 

His stomach  _ twists _ .

 

There’s just -

 

Since the first curious glance at Hasetsu Ice Castle, since he had heard the sound of the ice taking his weight and asking for more, since he was old enough to realize he had a passion, Yuuri’s been skating to Victor Nikiforov. 

  
  


He has dedicated every single program, every bruise on his skin that ached for days, every cut on his ankles, every time weeping in the changing room - all to him. Yuuri has memorized his iconic moves, has shut his eyes and pretended to skate them on the rug in front of the living room television (accidentally swatting Grandma’s favorite glass vase onto the ground in the process, unfortunately for him). 

 

Yuuri feels the bare, empty desperation of someone who’s lost their faith in a religion. The crushing, almost unbearable disappointment after being shown the man projecting his voice behind the curtain. The uncertain certainty of losing his worldview in seconds, of the sound of shattered dreams and broken hearts.

 

He wonders, bordering on hysteria, if he’s on the first stage of grief:  _ denial _ . 

 

Fears, with the irrational horror of trying to delude himself, that he’ll eventually arrive at  _ acceptance _ .

 

( _ He doesn’t want to accept Victor is like this, doesn’t want to resign himself to this...this casual dismissal that tore him open _ .)

 

Yuuri thinks,  _ fuck _ . He grabs his bag from where it’s resting between his feet, taking care to be quiet and not wake Celestino, asleep next to him. It’s disheartening to notice his hands shake, just a bit, as he searches through his stuff. His fingers comb through documentation, chewing gum, a keychain Phichit brought him from Thailand and - there. A clunky, slightly wet white cardboard box. He ruffles inside it and pops out one of the pills onto his hand.

 

Yuuri swallows the anxiety medication dry, thankful he had eaten not too long ago. He doesn’t want to have an anxiety attack, but he also doesn’t want to become Bella Swan and react catatonically to the end of the world. Jesus, was the Twilight cast bored with those movies. 

 

(The only thing Yuuri can really remember about them is the CGI werewolves and that scene where Robert Pattinson awkwardly glittered. He wonders how many gay sexual awakenings that furthered.)

 

It’s good, to let himself ramble. The pill takes a while to really work on him, even if he’s on a high dosage. Phichit would probably tell him that it isn’t good to repress the issues causing him anxiety or trying to trick himself with humor, but Phichit’s a month short of finishing his Psychology major, so.

 

Yuuri closes his eyes. Fuck. No thinking about finals, either. 

 

Maybe he can just...listen to music and think about nothing. Forget about the ice show, forget about everything. He can’t really find it in himself to be angry now, even if he suspects he will be later on.  _ Yuri  _ had been angry, when he came looking for him and found Yuuri crying alone in the changing rooms. Kept asking who to beat up, and riling himself up.

 

Yuuri just kinda wanted a hug.

 

He sighs. 4CC is just around the corner, and Yuuri’s just lost his main motivation for ever wanting to skate. Doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Doesn’t know what he  _ wants _ , who he wants, why.

 

Celestino touches his hand lightly. “You should sleep, Yuuri. Jet lag is bad.”

 

…

 

Phichit realizes, of course.

 

He wasn’t able to pick him up at the airport, since it’s basically finals season and he had some tutoring class at that time. So he calls Yuuri up cheerfully, asks him to go to their favorite coffee shop to celebrate and get a small rest before exams kill them.

 

“...I think I’d rather just rest at home,” Yuuri answers, voice small.

 

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

 

“I’ll be there.”

 

It takes him less than fifteen minutes.

 

“I brought ice cream - I think it’s sorta melted, though, sorry! - my USB with the Disney collection, and sexy outfits to try on,” Phichit declares once Yuuri opens the door to him, balancing a huge bag on his arms. “I am ready.”

 

“...Thanks,” Yuuri smiles, just a little. He can always count on Phichit to bring out the Disney. If they start playing  _ I Can Go The Distance,  _ though, he’ll definitely bawl his eyes out. Phichit’s eyes glance down to where Yuuri’s arms are wrapped around his waist. He bites his lip, lets the bag down. Yuuri helps him with the stuff, puts the rapidly-melting Ben & Jerry’s in his tiny freezer. 

 

“Wanna tell me what happened?” Phichit asks softly, sitting on the bed.

 

From where he’s sitting down on the floor, Yuuri shrugs. He feels ridiculous. 

 

He’s not fourteen anymore - isn’t jerking off to the thought of Victor being his boyfriend and fantasizing about what their kids would be named. Yeah, it’s alright for him to be upset about a good skater saying shit about him, but - but he isn’t supposed to feel so  _ lost _ , so aimless. He isn’t really upset, not really. He just feels… adrift.

 

“It’s nothing, really,” he insists, a small smile escaping him. “Just - Didn’t really get on well with Victor.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “Shocker, right? That celebrities are not actually what you make them out to be.”

 

“No,” Phichit cuts him off. “That’s what you were kinda down about the  _ last _ time you saw him.” His friend slides down to the floor next to Yuuri, pushes his chin up and makes their eyes meet. “Celestino said...he told me you cried.”

 

“I’m a big crier,” Yuuri tries. “I cry all the time. You know that.”

 

Phichit shakes his head, adamant, unwilling to accept that. “Yuuri...please tell me? You don’t have to, but I just - I don’t think it’s nothing.”

 

“I-It’s really nothing,” Yuuri swallows. “He just… he said my skating was mediocre.”

 

Phichit stills. “What.”

 

“H-he was kinda upset,” Yuuri mumbles. His cheeks are flushed. He can’t help the slow, building feeling in his abdomen that he’s betraying Victor, by saying it out loud. That he’s exposing his failings to Phichit, telling him exactly how bad he is. “He had a really shitty time. And I guess he was - less polite? More honest?” He shrugs again.

 

“So you mean he was  _ lashing out _ ,” Phichit says. His voice is fierce, almost angry. Fuck. 

 

“I don’t know.” Yuuri mutters. “Maybe. He seemed pretty sure of it.”

 

Phichit puts his hand on his shoulder. “Yuuri. I think...I think Victor may have noticed that your skating is good, but you’re nervous about it. And...maybe he saw the chance to hurt you when he was hurting, and took it.”

 

“Why would -?”

 

“People are jerks when they’re hurting, Yuuri,” Phichit insists. “Case in point: I’m really sad that you’re sad, and I would  _ love _ to punch Victor Nikiforov in the face.”

 

“Phichit!”

 

“He made you  _ cry _ ,” Phichit’s voice trembles. “Yuuri, you’re my best friend -”

 

Yuuri thinks,  _ fuck it _ . 

 

He hugs him, jumps on him and wraps his arms around Phichit without stopping to think about it. Phichit hugs back immediately, buries his face in Yuuri’s neck and squeezes tight. It’s the biggest relief he’s felt since it happened, the slow relaxation of every muscle he didn’t know he was tensing. It’s like coming home after a bad day and just letting his parents hug him, like squeezing Vicchan and kissing the top of his head. 

 

“This is what I need,” Yuuri tells him, low. “I just need a hug.”

 

“Okay,” Phichit murmurs. His hold tightens. “Okay.”

 

They watch Disney movies, sing all the songs, keep alternating between laughing and crying at  _ Lilo and Stitch _ . They put on Ghibli after that, buried in pints of ice cream, and sob during the entirety of  _ Spirited Away _ . 

 

Phichit holds his hand the entire time.

 

They’ll talk more about it, later on. For now, this is what Yuuri needs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Kudos and comments are so good and precious I need them
> 
> I recently found this blog: https://viktuurificwriters.tumblr.com/
> 
> They celebrate viktuuri writers and promote less well known authors. I hope you can give them a read and share the love with the amazingly talented writers in this fandom <3
> 
> I also want to rec this fic by my friend, which is amazingly written and ongoing: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094431/chapters/27416673 . Please give them love!
> 
> Thank you for your time <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and Kudos make my day :)  
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://i-read-good-books.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/gomadelpelorota)  
> I track #ttlwh and #vicchanAUfic :) on twitter and tumblr


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